


Maybe

by Cyclamen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU (Moriarty does not exist), Assumptions, Declaration of Love, F/M, Forgiveness, Honesty, John is a professing Christian, LGBTI-affirming, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mention of God Jesus (Christian Bible), Mention of past suicidal ideation, Prayer, Protective John, Protective Sherlock, Red Roses, Redbeard (dog), Sherlock is a Christian, alternating pov, chapter title mentions Adonai (Tanakh/Mikra), description of past suicide attempt, mention and brief description of past non-consensual sex, mention of OMC's past suicidal ideation, mention of Sherlock's past drug addiction, questions about sexual orientation, treatment of OMC's injured wrist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 27
Words: 57,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyclamen/pseuds/Cyclamen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to have a romantic relationship with John. John has been heterosexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Realizing

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of the characters from the Sherlock BBC television series, nor any of the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is my thoughts on 'what if John's orientation so far is heterosexual?' Any similarities to other authors' stories are unintentional, I did not check what stories are out there on this subject.  
> If you feel like hurting or killing yourself please don't do it, speak with someone, for example you can call a crisis line!  
> 

"So, Sherlock, I have a date tonight, after work!" John casually mentioned as he put his coat on - early-in-the-fall mornings could be chilly - getting ready to leave the flat. Smiling, clearly looking forward to this, Sherlock noted.

"Hm? What's her name?" He assumed it was a female since he had seen John ever only go out with females. "When and where did you meet?"

"Hold it, Sherlock. Her name's Jamie Marsden. She's quite sweet." Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. "We just met at Tesco's the other day. Her little daughter had bumped her head falling out of the shopping cart, and I offered to help, being a doctor ..."

"Hm." Sherlock sighed. "I was planning to do research for a case tonight, downtown. If you'd rather help me with that you know you're welcome to."

"Thanks for the offer. But I think I'd really rather go on a date at this time. It's been a while. Besides, Jamie already arranged for a babysitter. She's a single mom, looks forward to having a break ..."

Sherlock got the hint. "I probably won't be back till later. Have a pleasant evening, John."

"Thanks! See you later, Sherlock." And with that John was off. For some reason Sherlock felt slightly sad as the door closed behind his friend.

***

Sherlock tried to find things to do during the day. Sitting at the kitchen table, peering through his microscope, he tried to concentrate on his experiment, but caught his thoughts returning to John going to be on a date with to-him-yet-unknown Jamie Marsden repeatedly.

Trying to play his violin didn't go much better: he'd start playing something, but then he'd have to stop because he actually 'forgot' how the piece continued. Obviously distracted, annoyed with himself, he felt miserable and restless. Eventually he plopped on the couch.

He was relieved when it was finally time to go do the 'research' for their latest case; he'd made it sound more important in hopes of getting John to come along. Not wanting to wait until he was properly introduced, if he left a bit early he could go by John's work and maybe catch a glimpse of John's date if they met there, or follow John to where they'd meet. He'd be discreet, of course, he just wanted to know what she looked like, make his deductions, and then go meet his contact ...

John was off at 4.30 PM today. As Sherlock's cab got closer to the clinic where he worked John was already standing outside with a pretty looking woman. Her open blond hair reached down to her shoulder blades, Swedish-flag-blue skirt covering her knees, white blouse, oatmeal cardigan draped over her left arm, flat shoes, skin not tanned much, not much makeup ... John and her smiled at each other, no other skin contact ... unpretentious, honest, natural, normal ... then Sherlock's cab had passed by and he turned his head back quickly from looking at them. Hopefully John hadn't seen him.

***

Having left early, Sherlock called his contact, Peter Barnes, from the cab asking if they could meet earlier, which would work fine for both of them. He gave the address of the pub and soon paid the driver. It was a small place, off the main roads. Since it was only late afternoon there weren't many patrons yet.

They'd met several years ago when Sherlock had been addicted to cocaine and needed a place to stay trying to hide from a nasty creditor. Since Peter was homeless at the time he had let Sherlock stay with him at a secluded spot in a deserted underground tunnel, looked out for him when he was strung-out, introduced him to other homeless people. When Sherlock eventually surfaced in search of obtaining more drugs it hadn't taken Mycroft too long to find him, settle his debt and drag him off to rehab.

In retrospect Sherlock was grateful that Peter and his group of friends had helped him during that difficult period in his life, and in return he liked to help them whenever he could. In retrospect, he had to acknowledge, that he had to also be grateful for Mycroft not letting him kill himself with drugs. If he'd died then obviously he wouldn't have met John.

After waiting several minutes at the counter of the pub Sherlock saw Peter walk in. He was as tall as Sherlock, but even skinnier, dark hair as well, but longer and in a ponytail, tanned, clothes slightly worn, fingernails dirty and hands calloused from his latest job maintaining greenspaces in the city. They nodded in greeting at each other and then made their way to one of the tables at the side of the room. Sherlock wasn't hungry himself but offered to buy Peter supper, which was gratefully accepted.

"Here's the information you asked for," Peter said shoving a thin folder across the table at Sherlock, putting another forkful of his supper in his mouth, savoring the taste. "Something on your mind? You're so quiet. Not like you." Normally Sherlock would ask Peter about how things were going for himself and other people they both knew. Sherlock debated with himself whether he should mention anything about his situation with John.

"What would you do if you had found someone you get along well with?" he ventured.

"What d'you mean by 'get along well'?" Peter hadn't ever heard Sherlock express romantic interest in another human being before, only seen him alone. Back then Sherlock had been very abrasive, rude, full of himself, miserable, not someone anyone would want to be around for long.

"Well, ..." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, not quite sure how to proceed. "As I've mentioned before, I have this flatmate, Dr. John Watson. He works as a doctor. And helps me with cases. He's out on a date with a woman right now. And ..." Sherlock trailed off. He hadn't looked at Peter at all while he said this, just at his folded hands on top of the table, then closed his lips and raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Oh. - Are you saying you want to be together with him?" Peter asked hearing between the words and beyond.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders again. Peter put his fork down, looked at Sherlock's tense face. He didn't have that much experience with relationships himself. Sherlock clearly cared about this one person, otherwise he wouldn't have mentioned this.

"Well, if you think there's any chance he may return your feelings you could be honest with him. Life's too short not to let someone know that you love them." In the past year alone a couple of their mutual acquaintances had died of various causes. Yes, life here on Earth is finite, Sherlock had to concede.

Sherlock looked at Peter. "Any further advice?"

"You said he's out with a woman right now. Do you know whether he's bisexual?"

"No, actually I do not." Sherlock sighed. "He was in the army. He's said several times that he's not gay, usually when people assume that we're in a relationship, which happens quite a bit." A small fond smile appeared on Sherlock's face remembering various such instances.

"So, if you don't know whether he's bisexual or has had some sexual experience with the same sex, you can't know whether he'll want to be intimate with you."

Sherlock swallowed hearing that. He knew that usually romantic relationships, if not at first, eventually included some form of sexual contact between the partners at times, but this conversation was becoming quickly uncomfortable now. He was glad Peter was open to talking about it with him, though.

Sherlock rubbed his forehead and made a face. "You're right. I just don't want to lose him."

"I'll be thinking of you. If you want to talk, you know how to get a hold of me."

Sherlock knew that 'thinking of you' meant that Peter would be praying for him regarding this matter. As he had when Sherlock had been addicted to drugs.

"Thanks, Peter." Sherlock sighed again, paid the bill and left for Baker Street.

***

Since John wasn't home yet, back at Baker Street Sherlock automatically made his way into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He sat at the kitchen table, lost in thought, pondering his options. After clearing his few dishes he decided to go lie on his bed instead of the couch, on the off chance that John might bring Jamie back to the flat, to give them more privacy. Hopefully John would notice and appreciate that, for once, he did not 'interfere' and scare off his date with deductions.

Exhausted as he felt Sherlock managed to fall asleep. He came to when he heard John calling for him.

"Sherlock, you home?" Sherlock realized he'd fallen asleep in his coat, so it was possible John assumed he had not returned because he didn't see his coat hanging by the door. He kept quiet.

"I guess he's not back yet," he heard John say. Obviously Sherlock's theory was right. "So this is our flat. What do you think?" Not alone then, most likely Jamie was here as well.

"Would you like some tea, or coffee?" he heard John ask politely.

"Tea would be fine." The sound of the tap being turned on and off, mugs being sat down. "Does he play the violin? What's with the skull on the mantle? And the smiley face? Are those bullet holes in the wall?" Jamie voiced some of the easy observations of their flat. So John had mentioned Sherlock to her, on their first date, he hoped this was a good sign.

"Want to come sit on the couch?" Sherlock heard John ask, and froze. John was going to carry the mugs with tea from the kitchen to the living room, and he and Jamie were going to sit on the couch where normally Sherlock sat with John. He blinked, processing that picture.

"Yes, Sherlock plays the violin, very well. He's been known to carry on conversations with that skull. And yes, those are bullet holes. He was very bored, which can happen, in between cases. I mentioned we help the police at times, often when they're stuck. He's a brilliant detective. In fact he's the most brilliant man I've ever known." Sherlock lay still, soaking up every word of John's praise, hoping. He was grateful that John left out the part that Sherlock was not always easy to live with, he did know that about himself.

The conversation in the living room was growing quieter. Sherlock had to strain his hearing trying to make out what was being said without having to resort to actually putting his ear against his closed bedroom door. He did not want to do that.

"Thanks for inviting me out, and for showing me your flat, and the tea. That's very nice of you, John."

"You're welcome. I had a good time. And I'm sure you could use a break from looking after Lucy. You're doing an admirable job raising her on your own. It can't always be easy."

"Yes, it can be a challenge to make her a priority and work full time. Luckily my extended family also helps to look after her, they're great support."

There was a small period of silence, presumably tea was being sipped while how to carry on the conversation was being pondered.

"May I kiss you?" Sherlock heard John ask, and his hands shot up to his head grabbing his hair.

It was then that Sherlock fully realized that he wanted to be the one kissing John and the one being kissed by John! He was glad his bedroom door was closed so he did not have to physically see John kissing another human being than him, Sherlock. He hoped very much that kissing was all John and Jamie were going to do. He was not at all sure whether he'd be able to bear witnessing any other 'activities' with any of his senses!

The quiet grew longer, Sherlock frowned, but there were no loud noises, just a few very little ones. Surely John would take it slow on a first date and not let himself or his date be carried away.

Finally he heard John chuckle "That was good ...," even Jamie seemed to laugh softly, "Yes, thanks! Hmm."

"Would you like to go out again some time?" John's voice.

"Yes, I'd like to." Jamie's reply. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, fists grabbing the duvet he was lying on, and felt like cursing. "Maybe next week? I'll have to make arrangements for a babysitter again," - Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. Until next week would give him some time. - "which reminds me, I should get going, have to be up early, I apologize."

"I understand, no need to apologize. Let's call you a cab and wait outside for it." Splendid! Sherlock began to feel a little more like himself again as his brain started to try to think of how to proceed from here.

***

He heard their apartment door close. After a few minutes it opened and closed again. Then he heard the shower start up. He was pretty sure John would not be happy to find out that Sherlock had heard their conversation and kissing. So he took this break to get out of his bedroom, open and close the flat door, hang up his coat.

"John, I'm back," he hollered, put the folder with the information he'd picked up on the coffee table and sat himself in his chair, knees bouncing.

"Be right out," John hollered back. Emerging a few minutes later he was greeted with an impatient "How was your date with Jamie?" right away. John narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Calm down Sherlock. It went very well! We both had a good time. She really is a nice woman ... I invited her for tea after and showed her our flat. We might meet again next week." All truthful, leaving out the kissing and little noises parts, Sherlock noted starting to look serious.

"By the way, I do appreciate very much that you didn't show up at the restaurant or try to scare her away, thanks! And you even remember her name! You're brilliant!" John beamed at him. Sherlock swallowed.

"Did you have something for supper? Want to watch some telly? I'll just get changed, be right back." And with that John wandered up the stairs, to reappear shortly after in his PJs, getting comfortable on the couch. He put his feet up on the coffee table, klicked the TV on, as if nothing else had happened on that couch.

John patted the space beside him. "Want to sit here, Sherlock? How did it go with the case? Did you get what you needed?"

Sherlock swallowed, moved over to the couch, and gave John the folder to look at. John glanced over from the folder to ask Sherlock another question, but found his friend sitting with his eyes closed, lost in thought.

Feeling John's gaze on him Sherlock opened his eyes, bit his lip. "What's on TV? And, ah, yes, this information will be useful, I'll drop it off with Lestrade tomorrow."

"Okay." John yawned. "I think it's just a rerun of Supersize vs Superskinny. Want to watch that?"

"Please spare me." Sherlock didn't need a visual reminder of how little food he managed to eat at times in a week, especially during cases. He didn't care what was on, he had to think how to broach the subject of wanting to be in a relationship with his so-far-only-flatmate/friend.

He turned to lie down on the couch, lifting his feet above John's lap. "May I?" asking John's permission to put his feet down there. _Yep, something's definitely up_ , John thought and simply pushed Sherlock's feet onto his lap.

Sitting/lying like this was not uncommon for them. John didn't mind having Sherlock's feet in his lap, and this way Sherlock could stretch out and think, he presumed about things relating to The Work. Since it was a rerun he started flicking through the channels but soon turned the TV off in favor of picking up a medical journal from beside the couch.

"I have a short shift at A&E tomorrow." John had his name on a list of doctors helping out at certain hospitals in case someone called in sick or they needed extra help. He did find the quicker pace, variety and often greater urgency of what patients were dealing with interesting. "Should be back by 2 PM, if nothing major comes up."

"Hm," was all Sherlock remarked to indicate that he'd heard. He just lay there with his eyes closed, very still, feeling John's belly moving against his foot as he breathed in and out, steadily. It was calming, lying here like this, knowing that John was his friend: in deed, caring, reliable ...

***

After John had gone to bed Sherlock had stayed up yet. Maybe the browsing history on John's laptop would yield a clue about his orientation. Sherlock retrieved it, feeling slightly guilty. His perceived need to know whether John also found men sexually attractive overrode his knowledge that John would not approve of him hacking into his laptop. A weak password, as usual, allowed for quick access. After a few minutes of thorough search Sherlock concluded that John was most likely, at least at this time in his life, heterosexual. There was no evidence of John having looked at anything related to homosexual sex. Sherlock felt his hope squashed, some.

John himself had told him "it's all fine", meaning if Sherlock had a boyfriend. He had never heard John make a homophobic remark, ever. And yet ... Would the fact that Sherlock had a male body influence John's decision whether or not to have a relationship with him?

Trying to compare himself with unpretentious, honest, natural, normal Jamie Marsden was futile. Sherlock was Sherlock, unique, obviously! Of all those characteristics surely John would value honesty the most. If he wanted to impress John and have any hope of gaining his beyond-flatmate/friend-affection he would need to be honest with the man. Which did not come that natural for Sherlock. Decision made, honest he would be, as best he could.

He felt tired, emotionally and physically, made his way to his bedroom. Lying down there he thought of John upstairs, longing to study the marks on his face.

***

They were quietly sharing breakfast in the kitchen the next morning, John reading the newspaper, humming occasionally - _in a good mood then_ \- while Sherlock marveled at the sense of peace he felt.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, I need to speak with you about a matter of a private nature. Would some time this afternoon be suitable?"

"Hm, you were saying?" John put the newspaper down far enough to look at Sherlock over its top edge.

"I need to speak with you. About a private matter. Would this afternoon be okay?"

"Yes, that's fine. What's this about, Sherlock?"

"We'll talk then. You have to leave soon ..."

***

John had left the flat at 7.47 AM. 6 hours and 13 minutes, hopefully less, until he'd see John again, get the opportunity to speak with him! Sherlock could hardly wait in spite of wanting to prepare for it to the last detail. But how could he possibly predict John's reactions and responses?

Lying on the couch in his thinking pose he spent some time running various scenarios in his mind, trying to calculate the outcome if he asked John this way or that, or included certain information as variables, whether different levels of honesty would influence John's answer ... which got him really nowhere, only frustrated with his own limitations. The only two constants he was sure of: one - John was his friend, and two - John valued honesty.

Some of the scenarios he ran did come up with a negative answer, usually when one of the variables was John being 100% heterosexual. Sherlock tried not to let that worry him, John had surprised him in the past. Maybe John's sexual orientation was f‿l‿e‿x‿i‿b‿l‿e, his presumed heterosexuality not set in stone?

Sherlock tugged his hair, checked his watch: 4 hours and 7 minutes. He'd best get ready to go out, drop the information which would help close this case, not even quite a two, so boring, off with Lestrade.

He spent some time in the bathroom cleaning up, shaving, fussing just a little over which way his curls fell today. After putting on an Alice blue shirt and a stylish night blue suit he took a good look at himself in the mirror and wondered whether John found him attractive. A Jamie Marsden he was not.

***

"Oi, Sherlock, are you going out somewhere?" Lestrade queried from behind his desk startled by Sherlock's dazzling appearance. It was still before noon, usually people looked like this going out to a restaurant or gala, not for merely dropping off case information at NSY.

"Hopefully I'll be going out with John. That is if he agrees. I'm going to ask him out." Sherlock smiled looking quite pleased with himself.

"I thought you two were together ... You're saying you're just going to ask him now?"

"Obviously not right now! When he comes back from his shift at A&E." Sherlock was still smiling, trying to feel confident. "I know people assume we're together. I'm surprised you as a police officer hadn't figured out that we weren't." Sherlock's smile was starting to fade.

 _He's not sure whether John will agree_ , Lestrade realized and the part of him that wanted to see Sherlock, former drug addict turned valued detective, happy and not hurt scrambled to find something reassuring to say. If John declined he could only hope that Sherlock would be able to deal with the sense of rejection he'd no doubt feel.

"You're right, I should not have assumed. Look, I wish you all the best. I hope he'll say yes!"

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave.

***

On the way home he stopped by Barts to pick up a few body parts Molly had texted him about: four eyes this time, two from a seeing person and two from a blind person. Molly nearly dropped the small tray she was carrying, containing clearly a pair of smoker's lungs Sherlock noted. He wrinkled his nose slightly at the sight wondering how much his own lungs had cleared up in the years since he hardly smoked anymore.

"Um, Hi Sherlock! Nice to see you! Are you going out somewhere?" Molly remarked with wide eyes.

"I'll be asking John out when he gets back from his shift at A&E," Sherlock said with a tender expression on his face, holding himself upright.

"You mean to go out for supper?" Molly asked for clarification.

"First I'll ask whether he wants to be in a relationship with me. Then maybe supper later, yes." Sherlock smiled.

"Um, I thought you were in a relationship ..." Molly looked sad.

"I know people assume. But assumptions are just that." Sherlock didn't elaborate further.

"Well then ... I, um, hope things will work out between the two of you! John is a nice man. And, um, good for you to want to ask him out ... finally!" Molly smiled a little nervous. The slight blush on her cheeks and looking at the ground instead of him at the last sentence told Sherlock that Molly still hoped he'd ask her out if things didn't work out with John.

"Thanks," Sherlock said politely, replacing 'I'm not interested in you.' with "I can't see myself with someone else." He felt slightly surprised to hear himself say this truth out loud.

Molly had put the tray with the smoker's lungs down on the counter and went to retrieve two small plastic containers out of the fridge, one labeled 'seeing', the other 'blind', put them into a small brown paper bag before handing that over to Sherlock.

"Here. I wish you all the best! If you need anything else, just let me know." Molly sounded defeated, having gotten the hint.

"Thanks for the eyes," it was practical to have her get him body parts for experiments at times, "I appreciate it." And with that he strode off, brown paper bag with contents in hand.

***

One more patient to see, then John could head home. He looked forward to spending the afternoon with Sherlock, and maybe ringing Jamie to see how she was doing. John took the patient file labeled 'Robert Ferrer', quickly absorbed the sparse information - 41, single, nothing unusual beyond the flu and a sick note for work about two weeks ago, presenting now with a 'hurt wrist' which he hadn't let anyone else look at - and stepped behind the partition.

"Hello, Mr. Ferrer. I'm Dr. Watson. How can I help you?" John said warmly looking over the slumped man sitting in a green plastic chair: slightly unkempt brown hair, jeans and a faded blue t-shirt, red Converse runners with a little blood spatter on them, some dried blood on both hands, green towel wrapped around the right wrist. His face was drawn, John's presence only acknowledged with a nod.

"May I have a look?" Silence. John stepped closer and gently took the man's arm, removing the towel. The still bleeding gash along the base of the wrist definitely looked self-inflicted.

"Can you tell me what happened?" John asked wrapping the towel back around for now, getting Mr. Ferrer to hold it in place with his other hand while he went to pull supplies out of a drawer.

"We were together for about half a year... And then this morning I was let go from my job. They just marched me to the door, didn't even give a reason, it was so humiliating." Mr. Ferrer hung his head.

John thought something like 'So she left you, on top of it you were laid off, and you thought to try to end your life would solve your problems?' when Mr. Ferrer said "I really loved him," and John was very grateful he'd kept his mouth shut! The man in front of him looked so not-homosexual, John gave himself a mental kick that he must stop assuming about people's sexual orientation.

"So this was not an accident then," John stated the obvious. "Were you trying to kill yourself?" He remembered how desperate he himself had felt often because of his discharge from the military, before he met Sherlock.

The man shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares?" 'I don't matter' being implied. John blinked at that. He wanted to say 'I care. As a doctor. As a fellow human being. That you hurt so much that you thought of ending your life.' But he didn't.

After having checked that the nerves and tendons in the hand still worked he carefully disinfected the wound, administered a painkiller and then proceeded to close it with several stitches. Finally he wrapped a bandage around the wrist.

"People do care about you," John emphasized, which was only received by more silence, shoulder shrugging and possibly further slumping. John felt like shaking this patient.

"Are you having any thoughts of suicide or hurting yourself now?" John had to ask.

Headshake 'no'.

"Can you please talk?" John tried to keep his voice level.

"No. - I don't want to have to stay at hospital..."

"I hear you. I'll refer you to our assessment and brief treatment team. They'll speak with and listen to you, explain possible treatment plans, give you a card with contact information ... also get you in touch with people to help you find a new job. You're not alone in this, Mr. Ferrer," John pointed out.

"Is there someone who can come pick you up after? Do you have someone who can stay with you for the next few days, or who you could stay with?" John really didn't like the thought of this patient being left by himself with his own thoughts and feelings during the upcoming weekend.

"I moved here not even a year ago from Birmingham to start that job, haven't made too many friends... but I guess I could ask Stephen and his wife..."

John was relieved to hear the man had at least some social contacts. "That's good. I'll have someone from Mental Health Services speak with you. Please wait here. Your hand should be fine. I trust you'll get the support you need."

"Thanks, Doctor!"

John nodded acknowledgement and stepped outside, made his way to the phone, dialed Mental Health. "Hi, it's Dr. Watson. I'm referring a patient: slashed-wrist..."

***

Approximately 53 minutes until John's return. After he had hung up his suit jacket, Sherlock opened the fridge door to store the two little plastic containers. At least they were labeled, so John would probably not accidentally open them.

John had strongly suggested in the past that non-food items and items needed for future and/or ongoing experiments should be kept on one labeled shelf, two max, if Sherlock could manage that. The logical place was the bottom shelf, this way if something spilled it couldn't drip down on food for human consumption which would be situated above. John's suggestion was both logical and practical, so Sherlock wrote 'non-food-items only' on a label, attached it to the bottom shelf and then retrieved all such qualifying items from their various locations in the fridge. Surely John would notice and welcome this change.

Next he fetched a plain looking glass vase from one of the kitchen cupboards, filled it with water, unwrapped the flowers he'd bought, cut the stems under running water, arranged them in the vase, which he then placed on the mantle.

Of course, as a detective, he was familiar with 'the language of flowers'. It might come in handy at a crime scene some day, possibly giving clues as to motives or relationships. So he had settled on three roses to illustrate his feelings for John: one yellow - for friendship, one orange - he found John fascinating, one deep red - for romantic love. He hoped John would notice them and understand their meaning.

Maybe Mrs. Hudson had some scones left over that would lend themselves for an afternoon snack with tea? Sherlock made his way downstairs to inquire. ...

***

On his way home to Baker Street John's thoughts returned to Mr. Ferrer. There was no way for him to have known that this man was homosexual, or possibly bisexual, come to think of it. Hearing about a breakup people didn't normally ask 'and the sex of your ex-partner is/was?' or 'you were together with a man, or a woman?' Human nature apparently was to assume. And did it make any difference? Heartache was heartache, and broken relationships were just that, broken, regardless of the individuals' identifications or orientations.

Meeting this patient had reminded him clearly how depressed he had been himself back then, that he had definitely thought of ending his life, often. And why hadn't he? What had held him back from pulling the trigger? From letting himself find relief from the torment he'd felt. Had he been too depressed to follow through? Afraid to meet his Maker? Hoping against hope that something would change, even though at the time he often had felt so hopeless?

He had survived, somehow, somehow resisted the temptations to end that misery. And then Sherlock had entered his life, given him purpose, making him feel needed and valued. Friendship had grown between them, and John was grateful for it. He'd have to let Sherlock know soon that he valued him as a close friend. Life was too short ...

***


	2. Asking

Walking up the last few steps to their apartment John remembered that Sherlock had wanted to talk with him about "a private matter". Good, he'd probably get the opportunity to express his own sentiment then.

"Hi, Sherlock." John saw Sherlock sitting in his chair.

"Hello, John. How was your shift?"

John turned around from hanging up his coat. He didn't answer right away. Sherlock appeared relaxed just having finished a case. John's eyes drifted from Sherlock to the mantle noting the vase with three differently colored roses, and back to Sherlock noticing the Alice blue shirt, a nice ice blue that looked good on him.

"Um, it was interesting, brought back some memories... Is this a new shirt? And who brought us flowers?"

"Ah, I got the shirt a while ago, first time wearing it though. And I got the flowers." Sherlock blinked at him, smiling.

The last sentence tugged on John's curiosity and he frowned making his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"Do you want a cup as well, and a scone?" John asked finding the scones sitting on the kitchen table. Since they hadn't been there this morning and it was highly unlikely Sherlock went shopping or had actually baked them, they were most likely Mrs. Hudson's handiwork. He opened the fridge to get some milk for himself.

"Wow, what happened to the fridge?" It looked mostly neat and organized. The bottom shelf with its new "non-food items only" label was quite 'populated'.

"Tea, yes please; scone, no, I had half a one downstairs. I followed up on your suggestion regarding non-food items. An excellent idea really, I should have done it sooner." Sherlock felt quite sure John was pleased to hear that.

"I'm really impressed with the fridge! It'll be much easier to keep track of what needs to be binned instead of just going by smell, and more hygienic, hopefully." John put the milk back in the fridge.

When he emerged from the kitchen he handed Sherlock his cup of tea which was accepted with "Thanks!" and then settled himself in his own chair. His body appreciated the sit-down and his mind relaxed in the familiar surroundings. Digging his teeth into Mrs. Hudson's scrumptious scone he asked "Why did you get flowers?"

"An expression of my sentiments for you, John."

Just taking a sip of his tea, John wondered whether he'd heard right. He knew it was unusual for Sherlock to talk about "sentiment". He'd used the plural.

"Is this related to the private matter you wanted to speak with me about?"

"Yes, about that..." Sherlock folded his hands.

John had no idea what this was about, but it couldn't be too bad after all. "So...? I'm right here. I'm listening."

Sherlock's eyes looked so warm when he calmly said "John, I want us to be in a relationship: to be more than flatmates and friends. Will you go out with me?"

Whatever John had thought this might be about, he had not expected that. He blinked, and gulped. Surprised by Sherlock's statement and question John was lost for words.

Sherlock had stopped smiling by now. "John?!"

John put his hands on his head, sighed. "You want us to be in a relationship? You mean a romantic one?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, I _greatly_ value you as my very close _friend_ , my _best_ friend, and I am _very_ grateful for our friendship!" John emphasized each word, trying to stay calm, hoping Sherlock would accept that truth and not ask for more.

"Yes. I'm also glad we're friends. Of course I value our friendship! So, will you be my boyfriend, partner, significant other - whatever you want to call it?"

John sighed again. "Right. You know I just was on a date with Jamie; yesterday in fact. And I told you I might see her again, last night. Right? You should know that I am not in the habit of dating two people at the same time!"

"You can stop seeing her and go out with me?" Sherlock provided hopefully.

John covered his closed eyes with his hand, then rubbed his forehead. "Why are you asking me this now? You said you considered yourself married to your work." They both looked serious now.

"I had fallen asleep in my bedroom when you brought Jamie here last night. I realized that I want _us_ to be together. Will you, please?" Sherlock tried not to sound pleading.

John looked at the flowers on the mantle, stayed quiet.

"I got three roses for you, John: yellow, obviously, because we're friends, orange because you're so fascinating," Sherlock drew out the "o" on so, "and red, well... I want us to be together..." He didn't include veryveryverymuch or I love you as he deemed those words might sound desperate.

"I can follow you with the yellow and orange: Yes, we are friends! And I find you fascinating as well, definitely." Sherlock was glad to hear that. "But red? To be honest with you: I've never been in a romantic relationship with a man." John confirmed Sherlock's conclusion from the night before. "I can't answer your question. Not right now, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

Sherlock felt stung. He swallowed, blinked, reminded himself that John had not said 'No, never.' Trying for a safer topic he asked "Seeing how this case is finished, did you want to go out for dinner later?" Which was not out of the norm for them.

Sherlock noted that John looked slightly sad. John didn't look at him when he muttered "Sure."

"Where did you want to go? - Or would you rather order in?"

"I don't know..." John still hadn't looked up. "I guess whatever you feel like." He didn't want to add that for the time being he had lost his appetite. Finally he looked up to search Sherlock's face, to see how his friend was doing.

Sherlock's face and body looked tense, obviously he'd hoped for a positive answer. John felt the need to reassure and comfort him.

"I'll need some time, to consider, please. Okay? We'll talk about it again some other time?" John stood up from his chair and came to stand beside Sherlock's. "Can I give you a hug?"

Sherlock felt awkward, but he got up, stepped close to John, who pulled him into a tight embrace. Slowly Sherlock brought his arms up to embrace John as well. It felt good and right, he didn't want John to let go of him. Sherlock's tense muscles relaxed as he tried to commit to memory how John felt in his arms, how he smelled, the feeling of John's hair against his cheek, feeling John's breath, heartbeat...

"Know that I love you as my friend, Sherlock," John said firmly with tenderness.

Sherlock didn't say anything, just held on until John started to step back. When they stood apart again he nodded his head briefly. "Thank you, John. I'll be in my room for a bit."

With that Sherlock made his way to his room to give both of them some privacy. John looked after him until Sherlock's bedroom door closed. Sitting down in his chair questions started to roam his mind...

***

_So, that was..._ John huffed and shook his head. He brought his hand to his head. _Oh my God. What do I do? I don't need this!! Shit!!! I don't want to hurt him._

John felt worried, and sad. Sherlock and him were best friends, yes of course. Full stop. Just before this afternoon's revelation John's world had been rosy with the prospect of probably going out with Jamie again, a very nice woman. Now all of a sudden it felt complicated and slightly stifling.

Reasons why he felt he couldn't and didn't want to be in a romantic relationship with Sherlock were quick to come by: So far in his life, he'd only been romantically and sexually interested in women. Full stop. Having compared penis sizes and who could piss farther a few times with other boys or blokes didn't mean he was interested in seeing or getting aroused by male bodies and genitalia. His sexual orientation was not his fault. Full stop.

Of course he was a doctor, so he had seen plenty and knew what was involved with male/male sex. And he was definitely _not_ homophobic, given that his own sister, Harry, only wanted to be with women.

_Why me?_ John realized that Sherlock must have known that he was taking a risk asking him out, that John might turn him down. Surely Sherlock, a master at deduction, must know that he'd never even kissed a man. Well, given his own experience with Mr. Ferrer today, maybe sexual orientation was one thing Sherlock was not able to accurately deduce 100%. Hence the question. _But still..._

He'd come to a comfortable place in his life: The depression resulting from having been invalided was gone, thanks to Sherlock, he conceded. He had a meaningful job as a physician. He shared a flat with his best friend, Sherlock. He had a few other friends. He did enjoy sharing in The Work and knew that Sherlock valued him as a partner in that. He didn't want to change any of that!

Deep down he was hoping to find a life partner one day. Someone - so far he'd only seen himself with a woman - to settle down with, to be intimate with, to cherish and be cherished, grow old with ... In which case he'd eventually move out from Baker Street. Of course he'd still be Sherlock's best friend and help him with The Work, they were partners after all...

Certainly Sherlock's "I consider myself married to my work" back then did not allow for John to have anticipated Sherlock wanting a life partner now, and asking _him!_

With a sigh John also realized that he had never considered having a male life partner. Because he was not attracted to men. Admittedly Sherlock was an in so many ways very gifted human being, of the male gender. _But... honestly, can I give a relationship with him a realistically sincere chance?? - Shit!_

Right now he could not picture himself sharing more-than-platonic touches with Sherlock. _Why me? Why now? I don't want to hurt him!_

***

Sherlock retreated to his room, sat down on his bed. John had not accepted as he'd hoped. Sherlock hung his head. He'd taken a risk, stuck his head out like a snail out of its shell. There was no reason to give up hope they could have a more-than-best-friends-relationship yet. John had surprised him in the past...

However, Sherlock's mind began parading some reasons why John might turn him down: _you're not lovable, you're ugly, you're too thin, you're an ex-drug addict, you're a freak, you disgust him, you have a male body, John only likes female bodies, he's not bisexual..._ Sherlock pulled on his hair wanting the negative thoughts to stop.

Part of him wished that he'd kept his mouth shut. What if John was disgusted by Sherlock's love declaration, which it practically was, even without the words? What if he moved out sooner than he would eventually anyway once he found the right woman? Sherlock had no illusions about that.

No, he had done the right thing. Peter was right: life is too short. The Work could be dangerous. Realistically he knew that either of them or both could get badly hurt or even killed during investigations, chasing criminals, being captured, being attacked... This was an inherent risk of The Work. And John shared that part of their life willingly. Sherlock could not bear the thought of either of them dying and never having told him. _Unthinkable, unacceptable. John must know._

With that his resolve renewed to see this through. He'd have to be strong and patient, give John the time he'd requested, to consider. He'd try his best to be 'normal' around John, whatever measure of 'normal' he could muster in his 'state'. Try to act like before.

He allowed himself to recall John's "Know that I love you as my friend, Sherlock," while they had embraced, and a warm smile spread across his face, also warming his heart. _Ah, John..._

He was starting to get hungry, typical post-case. And he missed John. Maybe John was getting hungry as well? Sherlock got off his bed, poked his head through the door. John was still sitting in his chair.

"Would you like to go to Angelo's? I won't let them light the candle. Wouldn't want anyone assume we're in a relationship." Sherlock tried to make light.

"Sherlock!" John tried to sound warningly. He'd turned when he'd heard Sherlock's bedroom door open and was grateful to see his friend smile at him. "Okay. But this is not a date, you know that." John gave him a tight smile.

"I know. But I am hungry. And we are friends, regardless, right?"

"Right! Well then, I'll get changed. That shirt does look good on you..."

Sherlock still smiled at him. _It's good to see him smile. I don't want to hurt him._

***


	3. Tiramisu at Angelo's

The taxi ride to Angelo's was slightly 'torturous' for Sherlock. John sat to his right with his hands on top of his knees, looking straight ahead, not quite relaxed judging by his posture. Sherlock would have liked to scoot over so their thighs could touch but thought John might not appreciate such close physical contact (yet?).

Instead he openly kept staring at John's hands, which, at the moment he found absolutely fascinating: he noted the shape of his fingernails, state of the cuticles, moisture content of his skin, location of marks and lines, length and width of his fingers... He very much would have liked to study the underside of his hands and wrists as well.

John cleared his throat, having caught on to Sherlock's staring. "Would you mind? You've seen my hands before."

"Not like this," Sherlock replied almost reverently. He felt like he had 'binocular vision', which, of course, he'd love to focus on other parts of John's body as well. He'd have to get samples of all of John's fingerprints and study them under his microscope, actual skin and hair samples... maybe John would let him study his feet...

***

At Angelo's they were seated at their usual table. Angelo beamed happy at them, but when he came with a candle, true to his word, Sherlock insisted it not be lighted.

"We're not on a date. And we haven't been together," Sherlock stated plainly, looking straight at John. Angelo looked slightly taken aback, obviously he'd also assumed that they were in a relationship, but didn't say a word about it. He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder briefly, then retreated after he left their menus.

John would not be blamed for Sherlock's very poor timing, asking John to be in a relationship with him, the very day after he was on a nice date with Jamie, nor for the fact that he was heterosexual. He cleared his throat.

"So, anything in particular you'd like to talk about, Sherlock?" he offered.

"Not this moment." Sherlock was currently engrossed in studying John's face, the shape, width and length of his nose, set of his jaw, lines, marks, scars, shape, setting and color of his eyes, his lips... John's tongue still evaded his scrutiny and he should turn his head a little so Sherlock could see his ear better...

Sherlock began to smile, realizing that he was staring. "Thanks for the hug earlier, and for coming along for supper."

"Oh, you're welcome. You're my best friend. I don't want to hurt your feelings." There, he said it.

The smile faded from Sherlock's face, replaced with a look of uncertainty, almost fear.

"Sorry for staring. You're the most fascinating human being I know, there's so much of you I haven't discovered yet..." He felt like saying 'I love you, John.' John knew that he loved him, didn't he?

John pursed his lips. "Thanks, I guess. But Sherlock, while I am flattered by your interest, as I said, I've never been in a romantic relationship with a man. What about you?"

Sherlock sighed, thinking what kind of 'relationships' he'd had. Relationships weren't really his thing, or so he'd thought, until yesterday when he'd realized he wanted to be with John.

"Well...," he trailed off, putting on his best thinking face complete with theatrical look up at the ceiling. "I kind of had a crush on a male classmate at Uni, we had sex a few times, it didn't last long. Then there was Victor, you've met him; I think he didn't respect me, always wanted things his way. There were a few 'encounters' out of necessity when I needed drugs... Nothing since then. So, not many romantic relationships at all. You're it!"

He would have preferred to leave out the fact he'd traded sex for drugs, but he'd resolved to be honest with John. Inwardly he cringed at what his reaction might be. At the mention of it John had averted his gaze to the table, closed his eyes briefly and nodded imperceptibly, indicating that, knowing about Sherlock's past drug use, he had suspected this might be a possibility.

No harsh words, no condemnation, just quiet acknowledgement of his past. Sherlock swallowed feeling grateful, yet also sad because John had not agreed to give them a chance yet.

"Of course Mycroft insisted I get tested for STDs, which makes sense... I'm clean." At the time the need to procure the means to satisfy the cravings of his addiction had completely overridden any sense he should exercise caution. He'd been lucky not to suffer ill consequences, thank goodness indeed, Sherlock mused.

John picked up on his pensive mood and gestured toward the open menu to change the subject. "You know what you want to order?"

"I'll have the gnocchi. And you?"

"I'll have the lasagne today, maybe some tiramisu for dessert."

Ah, dessert, which Sherlock normally would not have. But maybe he could sneak a few spoonfuls of John's. He'd have to drop his own spoon then somehow, which should be easy, ask to use his instead, hopefully there'd still be bits of John's saliva on his spoon which Sherlock could ingest then along with some tiramisu. No, he'd have to put this spoon in his mouth first, lick it, savor it, without the distraction of tiramisu! He didn't really care whether John might notice that there was no dessert on the spoon.

After a few seconds Sherlock looked around and signaled for a waiter. One promptly came to take their orders. "And we'll share a tiramisu for dessert," Sherlock added, plan in place! John looked mildly surprised.

***

The cab ride home to Baker Street was a little tense. John, not as unobservant as Sherlock hoped he'd be right then, of course had figured out that Sherlock had dropped his own spoon on purpose so he could 'lick' John's several times lingeringly before finally using it to put some actual tiramisu into his mouth. John had squinted his eyes at him, and his lips had formed a flat line, not impressed.

"So, what's this then?" John demanded. "Now you're 'licking' my spoon without asking my permission first?!"

"I didn't know one had to ask permission to 'lick' someone's spoon," Sherlock said sheepishly.

"Well, that's just it. I'm not just someone, Sherlock. I'm the person you asked to be in a relationship with you. Which we are not, at this time. Not a romantic one, I mean," John had to clarify.

Sherlock glanced at John sideways trying to gauge the degree of his anger. John's lips were pursed.

"I wanted to taste your saliva," Sherlock admitted, he'd resolved to be honest. "What am I supposed to do? I want to kiss you. But you say you can't give me an answer yet."

John didn't reply to that, took a deep breath and exhaled, kept looking out the window on his side of the cab while Sherlock mostly did the same.

"I'm sorry if my licking your spoon offended your sensibilities, John," Sherlock supplied eventually, just as they were pulling up to Baker Street, which John acknowledged with a nod.

They walked up the stairs to their apartment in silence and hung up their coats. Sitting down in his chair Sherlock hoped John would make some tea and offer him a cup just to feel some normalcy in this obviously not-as-normal-as-before-he'd-asked-John-to-be-his-boyfriend-situation.

John went to sit in his own chair, though, looking a bit earnest. "Sherlock,... ," he started. "I don't know what to say to you. Give me time, please. You're my best friend. I want us to remain friends regardless of what I may decide. Please..."

John was clearly struggling for words and Sherlock realized that 'this' maybe was difficult, challenging and uncomfortable for John as it was for himself, even if for different reasons. "Okay," he nodded. "May I hug you? - Please?"

John didn't even look happier or smile when he got up from his chair. This time he did not approach Sherlock, but opened his arms in invitation nonetheless. Sherlock got up, took the few steps into John's arms, melted against him as much as possible, and just held on. Feeling John in his arms, feeling his heartbeat, smelling his hair... He wished he could hold John like this for longer, sit down with him on the couch, just hold him or explore, or lie down in his bedroom with him...

After a few long seconds Sherlock felt John relax in his arms, making a mental note that this type of embrace was welcome, permitted, beneficial for both of them. They should do this more often.

Words were not needed at this time. John assured Sherlock silently with his presence that he would always be Sherlock's friend. Sherlock received his assurance and assured John in return.

This was relaxing, they both sighed at the same time. John stepped back a little to create some space between their bodies, not removing his arms yet.

"Okay then. I'm really tired. We'll get this sorted. One way or the other. I need to go to bed."

"I'll be up for a bit yet." Sherlock let go of John and went to sit on the couch.

John went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash up. Before heading up the stairs to his bedroom he paused and looked at Sherlock. "I'm glad we're friends. See you in the morning."

"Thank you, John. Good night." He wanted to tell John again that he loved him but couldn't bring himself to voice these words. John had to know. He had to.

***


	4. Tagging along to Tesco's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [KarlyAnne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlyAnne/pseuds/KarlyAnne) for helping answer some questions I had regarding this chapter!

Once inside his bedroom, John pushed the door shut, leaned his back against it, hung and shook his head. _What a day..._ When he'd gotten up this morning he had had no idea Sherlock would ask him out. He had felt shocked at first. Then sad for Sherlock because he knew he was heterosexual. John had not been interested in Sherlock, his best friend, like that. Of course he knew that many people assumed they were together. What did they really know?

He shoved from the door, turned his bedside lamp on, the ceiling light out, started to take his clothes off automatically, just letting them lie where they fell. Normally he'd fold them neatly, but today...

He was glad to lie down in his PJs under the duvet on his side, both knees drawn up, one hand under his pillow. Mr. Ferrer came to mind again, who had hurt himself thinking of trying to end his life. He couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock would react if John said no. Sherlock had mentioned his past drug addiction during dinner ... John tried to banish mental pictures of Sherlock trading sex for drugs. He cringed, wishing he'd met Sherlock sooner. _Shouldhavecouldhavewouldhave..._ Resigned John resolved to give up thinking about it for now. He needed to sleep. Calm down. Maybe tomorrow he'd call Jamie to see if she'd like to meet again earlier, do something together on the weekend. And talk with Sherlock.

***

After John had gone upstairs Sherlock curled up on the couch wrapping his arms around himself, remembering the feeling of John's embrace. He felt so _needy_. Normally he'd play his violin to express emotions or inner processes he couldn't talk about. But all he could think about now was John. His mind fed him a stream of scenes of John in various situations, from the past, today, tonight. Sherlock belatedly noticed that one of his hands had made it to his crotch. As he felt himself beginning to get hard through the fabric of his trousers he made a conscious decision not to imagine possible future situations of John and him together. At least for now, he told himself.

Being honest with John had not been as difficult as he thought it might be, and there had been no negative consequences for him from it, so far! They had embraced twice in one day. Sherlock smiled thinking about it. Would John give him another hug tomorrow? Would he accept one from Sherlock? What about kissing? Kiss where? Kiss how? What about touching parts of John's body? Which parts? Touch how? Sherlock hummed. There was so much he wanted to do with John, to show him that he loved him, really appreciated him... He'd have to find out what John was willing to do, would let Sherlock do. And since John obviously had not looked at gay porn, if Sherlock sent him a decent link maybe that would get him interested in trying the real thing, with Sherlock, of course, who was very willing. _Yes_ , Sherlock sat up, grabbed his computer to find a suitable website, after which he proceeded to send a short e-mail to John:

_Dear John,_  
_I realize you haven't been in a romantic relationship with a man. I hope you're not scared to give us a chance because I have a male body. In case you wonder what it might look like physically I've included a tasteful link for you to check out, if you want._  
_Yours, Sherlock_

_www.tastefuldepictionsofm/msex.tirammisu.com_

***

John yawned and rubbed his eyes walking down the stairs from his bedroom. He felt well rested to face this day. After turning on the kettle in the kitchen he used the bathroom, then on his way back to the kitchen stopped behind the couch to look down at Sherlock who appeared to be sleeping still, face towards the back. He looked relaxed, a little drool in the left corner of his mouth, blue dressing gown in disarray, hair a mess. John felt love and fondness for his friend, smiled softly and shook his head in wonder, noticing how peaceful the atmosphere in the apartment was this morning.

"John?" Sherlock said quietly, not opening his eyes yet, but sensing John's presence and gaze.

"Ya?"

"What are you doing?" Sherlock had opened his eyes.

"Watching you sleep." John's hand was halfway to Sherlock's face, he hadn't even noticed that he was reaching out to touch this rare precious beautiful man that was his friend.

"May I?"

John didn't catch on right away as Sherlock took his hand very gently, light as a feather pressed a kiss in the palm of his hand and held it against his cheek.

John hadn't meant for this to happen. It was a very tender gesture and moment, he dimly registered, not pulling his hand away immediately.

Sherlock was looking up at him with big eyes, gentle like a doe's, smiling shyly. In fact John had never seen Sherlock look this happy and content. The cause was John's hand on his cheek. It didn't feel unpleasant or uncomfortable to have his hand there, but _Oh my God, he's in love with me. Shit! I didn't know he can be this gentle._

John cleared his throat. "I'll go make breakfast then. You hungry?"

Sherlock blinked, let go of John's hand right away as he pulled away turning towards the kitchen. He didn't feel particularly hungry, but it was post-case, so he should eat.

"What would you like?" John asked from the kitchen.

"Toast, tea." Sherlock knew it was important to John that he try to eat right, and enough. He got off the couch to go to the bathroom, put some water on his face, brush his teeth. Seeing his reflection in the mirror he decided he should comb his hair. Normally he wouldn't bother...

They quietly shared simple toast with jam and honey and some tea, neither mentioning Sherlock's lips on John's palm. Sherlock, for his part, was gazing at John's chest where just a few hairs were sticking out from his PJs. He'd love to sit on John's lap, lick his neck and ear...

"Can I sit on your lap?" Sherlock asked innocently, his mouth following where his thoughts were.

"No! You and I will need to have a talk sometime soon about these things. Boundaries and such, you know." John meant it. "We both agree we're best friends. I would find anyone sitting on my lap a bit sexual. I'd prefer that we don't touch sexually. - While I consider your request. Can you accept that?"

Sherlock swallowed, then nodded. He did look disappointed and his lip had a definite pouting slant to it.

"Heard from Greg?" John hoped for a positive answer to give Sherlock's brain something else to do than look at John's chest, of course he'd noticed.

"No."

"Maybe something'll come up yet. We're almost out of milk and a few other things. I was going to go to Tesco's shortly to get the shopping out of the way for the weekend, before it gets busy."

"Would it be alright if I come along?"

John looked mildly surprised. "Really? Since when are you interested in grocery shopping?"

"Since last night." Sherlock actually had given this some thought also, wondering what things he and John could do together. Shopping was quite low on his list, naturally. Getting to know John better and better and physical closeness were his top two priorities. But if tagging along for tedious grocery shopping got him to spend more precious time with John, so be it, for now, Sherlock had told himself.

John's expression became more serious, mustering Sherlock. "Hm. Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, John. I do want to spend time with you, today, and in the future. I'm willing to give grocery shopping a try."

John still looked skeptical. "Alright. Let me put the dishes in the sink and get changed."

Sherlock nodded, got up to have a quick shower and get changed himself. "Do you want me to help with the dishes?" he asked turning around, already half out of the kitchen.

"I got it. You just get ready." John had often wished that Sherlock would make more of an effort with things like shopping and tidying. But then he'd figured that The Work was more important than looking after aspects of everyday life.

***

It was only a short walk to Tesco's. John had made a quick shopping list and taken along four reusable bags. It was shortly after 9 AM, not busy yet. Many people, tired from their work week, preferred to sleep in.

"Basket or cart?" Sherlock asked considering the number of bags John had brought.

"Cart. Since I have you along you can help carry." John gave him a friendly nudge and smile.

Sherlock got a cart. Actually pushing the cart, following John through the aisles, was not exciting. But John's nice well formed bum was visible under his short jacket. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all...

Sherlock was just admiring John's gait, the movement of his hips, when John suddenly slowed down as they entered the produce aisle. Sherlock nearly bumped into him, looked up trying to find the cause for the change in pace.

There, 5 metres from them, Jamie Marsden was trying to decide which bunch of organic bananas to take. The shopping cart by her side contained not only groceries, but also a fair haired toddler in the child seat, Lucy, Sherlock remembered.

John busied himself trying to pick whatever fruit was closest, grapes, which were not on the shopping list, Sherlock knew. _Didn't expect to meet her here. Likely would prefer to be alone with her._ She still looked as unpretentious, honest, natural and normal as when Sherlock had first seen her. Instead of a blue skirt she wore moss green pants, and her cardigan was heathered grey instead of oatmeal colored.

When she spotted John she looked pleased to see him and pushed her cart over. _Doesn't know I'm here with him. Doesn't know what I look like._

"Hi, John! How are you?"

"Oh, Hi, Jamie. Nice to see you. I hadn't expected to meet you here." John looked pleased as well and waved at Lucy, who still looked tired but waved back.

"You haven't met, let me introduce you to my friend Sherlock." John pointed at Sherlock. "Jamie, this is Sherlock Holmes. - Sherlock, this is Jamie Marsden and her daughter Lucy."

Sherlock didn't feel particularly inclined to be 'socially nice and appropriate' to his rival for John's affections, but felt it would be in his best interest to just shake her hand. He put on a weak fake smile, hoped John wouldn't notice.

"Hello Ms. Marsden," Sherlock shook Jamie's hand and also waved at Lucy, "hello Lucy. John told me of your acquaintance, nice to meet you in person. I'll carry on with the shopping then and let you two converse." With that he took the shopping list from John's hand, who looked slightly alarmed hearing Sherlock's clipped tone, and pushed their cart along.

Since Sherlock actually had done some very minor shopping at this Tesco he was familiar with its layout and was able to finish the shopping quickly. Thus, when he got a _"Ready to go, where are you? JW"_ text from John 8 minutes and 25 seconds later he was already waiting by the checkout, in case John wanted to add something, before he'd pay.

 _"Waiting for you by the checkout. SH"_ he texted back. And there was John already, striding towards him, gooey smile on his face.

"She invited me to come along to the Zoo this afternoon!"

Sherlock sighed. He could feel John's excitement about this development.

"Okay. Did you want to add anything else?"

John surveyed the cart, satisfied it contained what they'd come for plus a few extras, shook his head. Sherlock paid. They loaded the bags evenly, proceeded back to their apartment, sharing the weight, carrying two bags each.

"So, what do you think of Jamie?" John sounded bubbly.

Sherlock had enjoyed this shopping trip with John. Running into Jamie was not a disaster. He'd have to see it as an opportunity to show John that he could handle this situation he found himself in maturely.

"She appears to be nice. I can understand that you find her attractive," was all he could come up with. It was difficult, though, to say these words, trying to sound neutral. Which he was really not.

Back in their apartment Sherlock assisted with putting the groceries away.

"Thanks for coming along, Sherlock, and giving a hand! Want some tea?"

"Sure. Being with you made it not boring."

John filled the kettle with water, his back to Sherlock, so he did not see him smile sadly.

Sherlock went to sit in his chair, feet on the coffee table, hands steepled under his chin. He wondered how he'd be able to make it through this time while John decided what he'd do about their relationship.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Below is the actual link I have in mind that Sherlock sent John. **Warning:** It contains, in my opinion, tasteful **not-safe-for-work** depictions of naked male bodies and m/m sex. **Do not click the link if you don't want to see such pictures!!**  
> [Don't tell anyone: Archive](http://an0sfw.tumblr.com/archive)


	5. On the way to the London Zoo

John brought their mugs from the kitchen, settled himself in his own chair.

"Thanks, John. I'm texting Greg again to see if he can give me at least a cold case." It was Saturday, one day after he'd been at NSY. Since John had made it clear this morning that he did not want certain aspects of Sherlock's attention at this time, a case was the only thing he thought could bring relief to his mind that still appeared to be mostly occupied with John.

John's laptop was already on the coffee table. He checked his blog for new comments and e-mail. An audible hiss indicated that he must have found and read Sherlock's e-mail.

 _Did he look at the link?_ Sherlock braced himself in case John's reaction was not favorable.

"Sherlock! You sent me a link to a website with homosexual content?" John reminded himself he should take a deep breath, maybe even leave the room for a minute, before he'd tie into Sherlock and possibly say things he would regret later.

"Yes, I did. It is tasteful, in my opinion. Have you looked at it? Of course you don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, I haven't looked at it yet." John got up to compose himself in the bathroom, closed the door behind him.

He put his hands on either side of the sink, hung his head. Then he looked at his worried face in the mirror. _Why? Why me? Why now? I don't want to hurt him. I like Jamie. What does he see in me? What do I tell him? God give me wisdom._

After he'd splashed some water on his face and dried it he made his way back to his chair. Sherlock looked slightly worried. John didn't want to crush him.

"So. Please don't send me any other links with homosexual content! I'm not sure I'm going to look at this. It **is** all fine! You know I stand by that. But, please, respect my sexual orientation as it is right now. I do realize these things are not set in stone. Sometimes things change. But this is not something that can be forced! You cannot force me to love you romantically, or sexually!" John was leaning forward by now, delivering these words with cross hairs precision.

Sherlock nodded, hugely relieved to hear 'not set in stone'. "You're right. Of course nothing and no one can force you to feel things for me that you don't feel. I was not trying to manipulate you, believe me. Just thought it might help in case one of the reasons for your hesitation is the physical aspect. Besides, if you'd want to be together but not have sex, I'm prepared to forego sex for your benefit. I hope in that case we could hold hands and cuddle lots, and kiss sometimes." Yes, of course Sherlock had run that scenario as well!

John closed his eyes, sighed in exasperation. "Right. Forego for my benefit. I didn't even know you were interested in sex, with me of all people! Cuddling? Christ, Sherlock, you are unbelievable!" John remembered the feeling of Serlock's lips so tender on his palm which left no doubt that Sherlock was capable of doing the things he was talking about. John just never had thought Sherlock would want to do such things with anybody since he had said he was "married" to his work.

"As you said yourself: Sometimes things change. I'd like to cuddle with you right now. Why are you so surprised?"

John realized that something really must have changed in Sherlock. Before they wouldn't have sat here having this type of frank conversation.

John needed to know. "What changed?"

"Simple, John: You know The Work we do can be dangerous. Life is too short. I couldn't take the risk of either or both of us dying without me having told you how I feel about you. - I'm being realistic, and practical." Sherlock's voice had grown quieter as he spoke, by the end he was unseeingly staring at the coffee table.

"That's profound." Sherlock looked up at John. "You know I'm still going out with Jamie. We're going to the Zoo with Lucy in a bit."

Sherlock acknowledged this with a nod. "Can you please let me know what behavior and touches you can accept from me at this time? I don't want to overstep your 'boundaries'."

"I will, certainly. I still love you as my friend, Sherlock."

"I know."

Since Sherlock had paid for the groceries earlier, John had decided he could afford to pay for Jamie's entrance fee as well. Lucy was almost three, so still could get in for free, that's why Jamie wanted to take her now. From the London Zoo website he purchased tickets online - not cheap! - printed them off, along with a map, which he put in his coat pocket already. In order to save money he packed some water, a cheese sandwich and some grapes in a small backpack. Jamie had said she'd bring food for herself and Lucy as well, they'd find a bench or picnic table somewhere.

Soon it was time to leave. John put on his coat and the backpack. Sherlock, who had been typing on his computer in the meantime, came over to see him off.

"Have a good time then. Return safely."

"Thanks. Keep in touch in case something comes up with Greg. See you later."

John appreciated Sherlock's consideration for his boundaries. He felt like ruffling Sherlock's hair, to tell him not to worry. Instead he stepped into Sherlock's personal space and gave him a brief hug for goodbye. Sherlock returned the embrace lightly, without pressure.

***

John had agreed to meet Jamie and Lucy in front of the Zoo main entrance. There were various ways to get there from Baker Street. He opted to take some paths through Regent's Park, to use the time to think about his situation with Sherlock.

He noticed that he was not in the same place with Jamie, as Sherlock was with him. Anybody could die anytime, for example from a ruptured aneurysm or heart attack his medical knowledge provided, but that fact was not the reason why he wanted to go out with Jamie. They had just recently met, he found her attractive, neither of them knew how things would work out. She wasn't even officially his girlfriend yet, nor he her boyfriend. Having kissed once didn't make them that.

John realized that from Sherlock's perspective he had a valid reason to want to be with John. They had lived together for several years, knew each other's idiosyncrasies, and were best friends. Sherlock already felt what he did for John, was deliberate about asking him out. If John was right Sherlock's intentions were for the long term, serious.

With the girlfriends he'd had in the past he had enjoyed sex. For John sex was part of being human, nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. If he had a life partner, of course he'd like to have sex with that person, to express their love for each other, while they both were physically capable. And here was Sherlock, clearly very interested, yet willing to 'forego it for John's benefit' should he not want it. John shook his head. That Sherlock could indeed be this unselfish was astounding. Maybe later tonight, in the privacy of his bedroom, John could look at that link Sherlock had sent him to find out whether he could picture himself having sex with a man.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, he was following paths in the general direction of London Zoo. A tall tanned man with an Asian looking woman by his side was coming towards John. He was almost two heads taller than her, his right arm draped over her shoulder, while her left arm circled behind his waist. _Couple in love_ , John registered. They looked quite comfortable with each other, hips bumping against the other's body occasionally.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," the man greeted, passing John with a quick nod.

John paid attention at hearing his name, stopped and turned around. "Excuse me, do I know you?"

The couple turned towards him. "We haven't met. I'm Peter Barnes, a friend of Sherlock's. This is my girlfriend Amy Choi. Sherlock had mentioned that you help him with cases. I recognized you from your picture on your blog. It's nice to finally meet you in person," Peter said with an enthusiastic smile extending his hand to shake John's.

John shook Peter's and Amy's hand. He hadn't been aware that Sherlock had another friend besides him. "How did you meet?" John wondered why Sherlock had not mentioned Peter to him before.

"It was several years back, he needed a place to stay, so I offered ..." Peter kept it vague, didn't want to elaborate not knowing what Sherlock had shared with John about that time in his life. "He hasn't met Amy."

Was this the classmate from Uni Sherlock had mentioned? Or one of his 'encounters-out-of-necessity'? Sherlock had needed drugs, and Peter had offered to give him some at his place in exchange for - what? John felt defensive of Sherlock, not knowing the details, and his face showed he had questions.

Peter tried to clarify, looking briefly at Amy. Which told John that Amy didn't know any of this about Peter or Sherlock. "It's not what you think, Dr. Watson. I'm sure he'll answer your questions if you ask him. It's part of his past, not my place to tell." Again Peter looked at Amy, making it clear to her as well that he would not share any further details about this.

Peter appeared sincere, John gave him credit for telling him to ask Sherlock directly. "I'm meeting a friend and her daughter at the Zoo in a bit. It was nice to meet you! And I will ask Sherlock. Enjoy the rest of your day," John said politely, turning to continue on his way.

***

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock was thinking about his situation with John as well, how it could be helped along. Being honest with John was good. But having seen Jamie again this morning at Tesco's begged the question whether John found Jamie more attractive than Sherlock because she didn't dress in designer clothes like Sherlock did most of the time, because she had a more 'natural' look about her?

Would John find him more attractive if he dressed more 'natural' as well? Sherlock pondered this only briefly, then decided to go shopping to put this theory to the test. There probably were shops that sold designer 'natural'-looking clothes made from materials like hemp, bamboo, linen, wool, for instance, he'd just have to find one. He would still have designer clothes, probably less form fitting, and John could enjoy the more 'natural' look on him. Hopefully.

***


	6. Who is Peter Barnes?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning:** Please do not read if you find the following triggering: Sherlock and John talk about Sherlock's past drug use (in this story cocaine and heroin). Past non-consensual sex is mentioned but not described at this time.

After some inquiring Sherlock spent part of the afternoon choosing and buying several pieces of clothing to test his theory. He knew where to buy his regular clothes, what look, fabrics and colors he preferred to see on himself. But since 'natural' was quite different from his regular bespoke-very-high-quality style he felt a little lost at first. He'd leave the tags on so he'd be able to return unworn pieces in case it was a total flop with John.

Mission accomplished, his five shopping bags contained: one cream colored Irish-fisherman design (similar to John's) jumper made of cashmere/cotton, not too warm for the fall; tan colored medium-wale cotton corduroy pants; two boxer-style underwear made of organic plant-dyed cotton, one leek green, one curry colored; natural and dark brown colored organic cotton/bamboo socks; a pair of vegetable tanned plant dyed brownish ankle-height lace-up boots (for the rugged look); two organic hemp t-shirts, one burgundy V-neck, one dark teal; dark green hemp lounge pants, not gathered at the leg openings; one unbleached linen/silk noil dressing gown, mid-calf length, with attached hood. He could wear the short wool Duffle coat he already owned for outings.

Since it was unlikely he'd get the opportunity today to open his new pants and show John his new underwear, at home he only took out the jumper, corduroy pants and dark brown socks, changed into those, then stashed the rest of the bags along with receipts in his closet. Next he set up an experiment on the kitchen table, it was critical he'd be facing the door to get an accurate look at John's pupils once he laid eyes on him.

***

John had had a good time with Jamie and Lucy at the Zoo, they saw lots of animals, the Silkie chickens were Lucy's favorites. He'd offered to push the buggy at times as well. They hadn't kissed again, though John would not have objected to that, not really talked about how to continue their 'relationship', but agreed to stay in touch. John was slightly perplexed by this lack of development, but didn't want to push Jamie into something she might not want at this time.

His feet were starting to hurt from all the walking, so he'd taken public transit part of the way back to Baker Street. He hadn't heard from Sherlock all day, so there probably hadn't been anything from Greg, and he must have found something to occupy himself with, his usual complaints of boredom were conspicuously absent. John's body felt several years older as he slowly walked up the stairs to their apartment. He'd need a cup of tea and put his feet up for a bit.

"How did it go at the Zoo?" he heard Sherlock from the kitchen. As if Sherlock couldn't deduce his very state of mind from the speed and weight of his steps.

"Hm, just a minute," John mumbled hanging up his coat and setting down the backpack. He used the bathroom, then headed for the kitchen, yawning. "Zoo was good, thanks for asking." He did a double take because Sherlock looked so ... different. He looked over the pattern on the jumper Sherlock was wearing, frowning.

"Are you on a case? Why are you wearing a jumper?" John had made his way along the kitchen table now to get the kettle ready and was looking at Sherlock's legs. "And corduroy pants?"

"Not a case. Do you think these clothes look good on me?" It certainly hadn't escaped Sherlock that John's pupils had definitely dilated when he saw Sherlock in the jumper, and again noticing the corduroy pants. Was John attracted to Sherlock, though, or just the clothes, or Sherlock in these clothes? Maybe he should have sat here naked to get an obvious answer to the first option.

"Um, I think you look good in them. I'm just not used to seeing you like this." John felt slightly embarrassed because he'd like to touch the jumper, and corduroy pants, if he was honest with himself, to feel what they felt like on Sherlock's body. John was surprised his thoughts were going that way, he quickly turned to the counter so Sherlock wouldn't see him starting to blush. He filled the kettle.

"I met a friend of yours on the way to the Zoo, Peter Barnes. Ring a bell?" John pulled mugs from a cabinet.

"Yes." Sherlock got up to clear off the 'experiment', it had served its purpose. "I'll be in the living room."

"Be right there." John looked in the fridge to see what they could have for supper. "Wanna help make stir-fried chicken with veg in a bit?" he called after Sherlock.

"Sure." Good, another opportunity to spend time with John and be physically close to him! Sherlock had decided to sit on the couch, giving John the option to sit there as well. If John chose to sit in his own chair Sherlock could either stay on the couch or move to his own chair.

John put one mug down in front of Sherlock, then sat at the other end of the couch angled towards Sherlock, his left leg tucked up underneath the right one, sipping from his own cup.

Sherlock glanced at John's crotch. "Before we start, how are things between you and Jamie?" From the way John had walked up the stairs he was pretty sure he knew what the answer would be.

"I guess we're just friends, haven't made it to boyfriend/girlfriend yet, she didn't explain, and I didn't want to bring it up. I might call her in a few days, see if she wants to go out." Sherlock acknowledged this with a quiet nod. "So, I asked Peter how you met, but, I guess also because his girlfriend was along, he suggested I ask you directly. One hallmark of a good friend is that they keep your confidence and respect your privacy. You have a good friend in Peter then!"

Sherlock nodded, grateful that he could rely on Peter not to divulge details of his past. "Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, I don't know, we ran into each other in Regent's Park. Given the size of London that's very close to Baker Street. I just want to make sure he's not going to cause any trouble in case he's your crush from Uni or one of your past 'encounters'. How am I supposed to know?" It was obvious that John was very protective of Sherlock. John had noted Sherlock's reticence to share certain details of the time before they had met, now wondered whether he had any right to pry.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "What do you want to know?" reminding himself he'd resolved to be honest with John.

"What happened? Take your time. Share what you want. I won't judge you. And I'll still be your friend!"

 _He's genuinely concerned because he doesn't know who Peter is._ Sherlock changed position, angled towards John, his right leg tucked up under his left.

"As you know several years back I got addicted to cocaine. Occasionally I also used heroin." John's eyes widened, he hadn't known about the heroin.

"I'd seen Peter before panhandling at one of the tube stations, the sign by his collection container read 'Homeless - please spare some change? God bless'. In a sense I was homeless at the time as well, Mycroft had cut off funds because any money provided for my daily living I spent on drugs, I wasn't able to work really. A creditor had me beaten up because I didn't pay on time, so I decided to hide, asked Peter if he knew a safe place. He offered I could stay with him, in one of the abandoned underground tunnels, as long as I needed to. He shared whatever food he had, didn't judge me. - That's how we met." Sherlock looked sad.

"I'm grateful he was there to help you at the time! Did he encourage you to quit?"

"Yes."

"How long did you stay with him?"

"Couple weeks maybe. When I wasn't using I'd get withdrawals, which made me want to use again. It's a pretty pathetic life when pretty much all you can think about is how to get your next fix, and you don't care about any consequences to your mind or body! Pathetic!!" Sherlock spat that last word out.

"Since I had 'fallen off the radar' so to speak, hiding in the underground, naturally Mycroft was very keen to find me." Sherlock managed a sad chuckle. "One time when I surfaced to get more drugs Mycroft and a couple of his men caught up with me. Of course I didn't agree with his explanation why I needed help. Let's just say I didn't go with them willingly," another sad chuckle, "even though I had pneumonia at the time and was already malnourished, in need of medical attention as well. Then I was admitted to rehab. Against my will. It was dreadful."

John was listening sharply. By the way Sherlock had phrased this it seemed he didn't deem pneumonia and malnourishment worthy of medical attention, which of course they were, but something else must have happened for which even he knew that he required medical attention.

"What kind of medical attention?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "John, why do you want to know this? It's in the past. I'm not hurt anymore."

"Because I care." _Anymore?_ "So you were hurt. How?"

 _Tenacious like a dog smelling a buried bone. - Not a good topic!!_ Sherlock could feel himself getting hard remembering how he'd feel anticipating the drugs entering his bloodstream, then the rush and euphoria, arousal ...

"That last time when I had agreed to a certain sexual act, it was to be in exchange for a double hit of heroin. I think they gave me cocaine in the one syringe, though, and heroin in the other, essentially turning it into a speedball. The rush was quite spectacular, then I don't remember anything until I came to lying naked on the ground cold and shivering. A guy that hadn't been there before kicked me in the ribs, told me to get lost. I noticed there was blood on the floor, and on me. I hurt 'there'. Used one of my socks ... I didn't tell Peter what had happened. But he must have sensed that I was in a bad state. When he thought I was sleeping I heard him come over. Sounded like he was praying quietly, I only heard snippets, 'God', 'Jesus', 'help'... that sort of thing. The next day Mycroft found me."

John swallowed. He knew that speedballing was very dangerous, the effects of the cocaine could disguise a potential heroin overdose. Even though he had not intended to speedball, Sherlock could have died. - And he had been raped. _Bastards!_ Did Sherlock suffer psychologically, knowing that he had been violated, even though he had been unconscious while it happened?

"What happened to whoever did this to you?"

"I could only give Mycroft the name and description of the man that was there initially. We know he has means and ways... Violating and tearing up his little brother will get you consequences! I don't need to know the details."

"That's true." John nodded. "What became of Peter? Have you stayed in touch?"

"Of course Mycroft had wanted to know where I'd been when he couldn't find me." Sherlock smirked. "I told him about Peter. After rehab I wanted to thank him for letting me stay with him. Mycroft gave me his address. And Peter told me that he found an envelope with a handwritten note from Mycroft in his collection container, with cash, thanking him for helping me, offering to get him work and to pay for the safety deposit and first few months rent of any apartment Peter would like to move to. Peter is quite modest, it's a small apartment, and he pays the rent now from the money earned from his job."

"Wow. I'll have to thank both of them when I see them! Mycroft ..."

"Yes. I see Peter usually only in relation to cases now. A lot of my homeless contacts came about through him."

"I see. - I don't know what to say Sherlock. I'm sorry you had to go through this difficult period in your life. I'm glad you survived so I could meet you. Please promise me you'll speak with someone first if you ever want to use again. I'm certainly available."

Sherlock kept quiet. Looked to the ground. No 'Of course, John, thanks for the offer.'

John looked slightly alarmed, searched Sherlock's face. Sherlock just bit his lip, so John moved closer in order to place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hey, what's going on? Can you talk to me? Were you thinking of using drugs again?"

Sherlock looked at John's hand on his shoulder. He didn't want to admit he'd considered it in case John turned him down. But they weren't there yet. Deflection then ...

"Maybe ..." His breathing picked up. "I normally don't talk about my past drug use because I want to avoid being reminded of how good shooting up made me feel. Addiction sucks, of course."

"Did that happen when you just told me about it now? It reminded you?"

Sherlock nodded. _Shit!_ He was getting hard again just thinking about it.

"Shit! I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't realize it was triggering for you. Are you okay?"

"I will be. I'll go have a shower. You start cooking? I'll just be a few minutes."

"Okay." John was worried now, though. "What part do you want to help with? The prep or the cooking?"

"You start with the prep. I'll cook." With that he disappeared in the bathroom to have a cool shower because he didn't want to masturbate thinking about shooting up, and he didn't want to imagine things with John.

John sighed, shook his head, and made his way to the kitchen, retrieving ingredients from the fridge, getting a cutting board, knife ... starting to heat the oil in the pan, when Sherlock joined him, hair still wet, wearing a burgundy V-neck hemp T-shirt and dark green hemp lounge pants with matching burgundy socks that he had found in his sock drawer.

"I haven't seen this on you." John's pupils were dilating again. He noticed Sherlock's nipples sticking up underneath the t-shirt.

"Just got it this afternoon. Hand me the spatula, would you? I sent you another e-mail."

"With another link?"

"No. A table you can fill out."

"A-hm."

"I like cooking with you, John."

"Right ..."

It was going to be an interesting evening.

***


	7. Checkmarks

John's and Sherlock's collaboration of prepping and cooking turned out quite tasty. This meal was special to John in that it was the first that Sherlock had helped prepare in the years since they lived together. Sherlock also offered to do the washing up, which John was quite happy to leave to him. Very apparently his romantic interest in John was the reason to concern himself now with domestic things like shopping, cooking, washing dishes, because before he would not have been seen in the kitchen during or after food preparation, except to tend to an experiment.

"Thanks for doing the dishes! I'll go check out your e-mail then," John said heading for his chair. Sherlock looked after him, but didn't say anything. He did look at John with his laptop on his knees, though, a minute later from the kitchen doorway drying some cutlery to assess the situation, again saying nothing. Another minute later, finished with the dishes, he sat himself in his own chair awaiting John's reaction.

The e-mail Sherlock had sent John read:

 _Dear John,_  
_in order to help me better understand and respect your boundaries at this time, while you consider being in a relationship with me, please fill out the table below and e-mail back to me._  
_Yours, Sherlock_

The table inquired about things Sherlock wanted to do (look at, touch, feel, smell, kiss) with different parts of John's body (hair, face, neck, ears, upper body, hands, lower body, feet) to be marked yes, no, maybe. Pretty straightforward then.

"I do appreciate you wanting to respect my boundaries, Sherlock!" John said happily. "And you made it easy! Brilliant!" John began filling out the table. His face showed that with some parts he had to think for a bit. When he was done he returned the e-mail to Sherlock. "There, you can look at it."

Sherlock who had been nervously waiting opened John's reply to study it. He looked apprehensive at first, then relieved, then slightly disappointed, but nodded acceptance.

 _Dear Sherlock,_  
_thanks for asking. Here's your answers. Let's keep talking._  
_Your friend, John_

 

acceptable touches and behavior from Sherlock as of _________

 

| hair | face | neck | ears | upper body | hands | lower body | feet  
---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---  
look at | yes | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓  
no  
maybe | ✓  
touch | yes | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓  
no | no nipples | ✓  
maybe | ✓ | ✓  
feel | yes | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓  
no | no nipples | ✓  
maybe |  ✓ |  ✓ | ✓  
smell | yes | ✓ | ✓ | ✓  
no | ✓ | ✓ | ✓  
maybe | ✓ | ✓  
kiss | yes | ✓  
no | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓ | ✓  
maybe | ✓ | ✓  
  
 

"So you're willing to let me look at everything except your lower body? And the only part of your body I'm allowed to kiss right now is your hair?"

"Yes. I checked those boxes."

"May I?" Sherlock got up from his chair, approached John's.

"What?" John hadn't thought Sherlock would want to do something from the table right away.

"Look at, touch, feel, smell and kiss your hair?" Sherlock was already beside John's chair, kneeling down. John hadn't even put his laptop on the table yet.

"Erm, hang on a sec." John turned to face Sherlock whose eyes were quite wide with tenderness. Trust Sherlock to focus on the one thing that had all boxes checked 'yes', John's hair. "Wait!" John sounded alarmed.

Sherlock froze, bit his lip. "Yes?"

"I'm not an experiment! And I filled this out with strictly platonic friendship in mind. Do you understand?" It was important for John that Sherlock get that.

"You are not an experiment. Strictly platonic friendship from your side. Got it." _Platonic ...!_ Sherlock knew he himself was definitely past that. "Do you want to stay seated here, stand up, sit or lie on the couch?" Sherlock smiled encouragingly. "I can look at your hair from here while you decide."

"Right." John found the intense look of concentration on Sherlock's face as he looked at his hair distracting. "What do you suggest?"

Sherlock stopped looking at John's hair to look into his eyes. "I suggest you stand in front of the coffee table. Open space. You'll feel more in control in that you'll be able to step away unhindered if you need to."

"Right." John had to admit that Sherlock's choice showed that he was aware of John's frame of mind. Namely he didn't want to feel trapped. "Okay." He got up, stood in front of the coffee table. This felt a bit not-spontaneous; obviously if Sherlock was a woman he was interested in they wouldn't need a table with John's current boundaries, and the couch would be the natural choice ...

Sherlock had moved to stand in front of John. John noticed that his face showed happy content admiration for the object of his affection. He felt a little shy and overwhelmed realizing this was all for and because of him.

Sherlock sighed. "I won't touch your face, neck and ears at this time. You can keep your eyes open, or close them. Try to relax. We can sit on the couch after if you'd like to talk ... May I?" Sherlock reached for John's hair waiting for permission to continue.

John closed his eyes, nodded. "Go on." He was beginning to feel self-conscious. What had he gotten himself into? This was just his hair!

Since John had his eyes closed Sherlock also thoroughly looked at John's face, neck and ears while he had the opportunity. They were marked 'yes' after all. John could sense Sherlock move around him a few times.

"I'm going to touch your hair now," Sherlock announced. His touch was light as a feather. At first he rested his hand lightly on various parts of John's hair, true to his word staying away from his face, neck and ears. John felt relieved that he could rely on Sherlock to only do what was agreed upon and began to relax. Sherlock's touching turned into tender stroking. John wondered why Sherlock bothered with his hair at all.

"I'm going to feel your hair now." Stroking turned into groping. Apparently Sherlock tried to feel whether John's hair was thicker in some places than others, and he seemed to try to feel the shape of John's head underneath his hair. Which turned into a kind of relaxing head massage. Of course Sherlock's fingers were talented for other things besides playing the violin!

"That feels nice," John let slip. No woman had ever felt the need to feel his hair like that.

"I'm going to smell your hair now." Very light touches returned while Sherlock's nose touched John's hair, sometimes lightly, other times firmer pressed against his head, only short sniffs sometimes, deep inhales at other times. John wasn't sure whether there was a particular method to obtain certain information regarding the smell of his hair.

"I'm going to kiss your hair now." John decided to open his eyes for that. Since Sherlock was taller than him he mostly got glimpses of Sherlock's chest, neck and chin. Sherlock was too busy planting soft kisses all over John's hair to notice him looking. John wasn't counting how many times Sherlock's lips touched him, he guessed it was at least thirty. Again he noted that no woman had ever felt the need to kiss his hair like that.

Having done everything he could do at this time with John's hair Sherlock breathed a sigh conveying great contentment. "Aaaahh, John, ... thank you! Come sit on the couch?" He tentatively took John's hand, who nodded once, then led their way there. He would have very much liked to sit as close as possible to John, put his arm over behind his shoulder, hug him, but decided to give John some space in order not to overwhelm him.

"Any thoughts you'd like to share? How was this for you?"

Sherlock's attention and actions had made John feel special in a way no one else had until then. Despite having been apprehensive at first he did not regret having let Sherlock do what he did.

"You made me feel real special. Thank you for that. No one's ever paid that much attention to my hair." John smiled thoughtfully at that. "You're serious about us being in a relationship then." It was more a statement of fact than a question.

"Yes."

"What did you get out of this?"

"We don't know what you will decide. I try to be realistic. In case you decide you cannot be with me, for whatever reason, I want to commit to memory as many details of you as possible. You are the most fascinating human being I know. - Your hair does smell nice."

John was glad to see Sherlock smile warmly at him. So far he had not made any progress yet with making a decision. John wondered whether he felt anything else for Sherlock than platonic friendship and being his best friend and just wasn't aware of it. He'd have to give this some serious thought. Obviously Sherlock was very serious. He deserved an honest answer, not to be brushed off lightly.

"Like I said, I need some time. Sorry. I should look at that link you sent me. Who knows... I never considered having a male life-partner..."

"You can't help being interested in women, being heterosexual. Like you said 'it's **all** fine.' Just like I can't help being homosexual. All I know is that I want to be with you John Hamish Watson." Sherlock squeezed John's hand at that briefly, placed a firm kiss on his hair. "I love you."

 _Deep again._ "What if I don't love you like that?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "What is it to love someone? Look at me. Who would have ever thought I'd want to be in a committed relationship with anybody? With you?" He shook his head at that. "I only realized two days ago... Take the time you need. I'll wait."

"Okay. I'll be in my room for a bit. You'll be up still?"

Sherlock nodded. He'd play his violin for a while, got up to retrieve it. Tuning it, holding it, playing it were familiar activities, comforting him in the face of an unknown future. He didn't watch John make his way upstairs, laptop tucked under one arm, as his playing music already filled the air.

***


	8. Results from looking at that link

John had decided to check out the link Sherlock had sent him. As it was too early for going to bed, he took off his jeans, sat on his bed, back against the headboard, laptop on his crossed legs. He was grateful that Sherlock did acknowledge his sexual orientation, 'you can't help being heterosexual'. Sherlock was not forcing anything on him. Instead he had been very considerate and circumspect, respecting John and giving him choices.

Not knowing what to expect, John's heart beat a little faster as it took some time to connect to the website from the e-mail. He needn't have worried, though, all of it was indeed tasteful! There were pictures and gifs, most in black and white, some in color, only the occasional picture showing someone or something bound.

The pictures were of male sexual organs, penises, anuses, scrotums, John had seen many of those as a doctor, male bodies in various states of undress, he'd also seen lots of those. What he hadn't seen in real life were erect penises beside each other, a penis rubbing against a man's cleft, perched to enter, pressing into or actually inside a male anus, male/male fellatio ... With the gifs this was animated.

Was watching any of this supposed to get him aroused? Instead of vaginas there were penises, the chests didn't have round pointed breasts but were flat, and the anuses were those of males, not females, thus showing testicles above it instead of labia majora, and so on. A lot of the pictures showed tenderness between the male partners, kissing, embracing, stroking each other ... But they were two males instead of a male and female, both their faces and bodies more muscular instead of the to him more familiar female shapes, round curves and softer muscles.

John shook his head. This wasn't really doing anything for him. He looked down at his almost totally relaxed penis inside his underwear. Maybe he was a tiny little bit aroused because the pictures did show human beings having sex, being intimate, but then that would have been because he felt like he was watching them, not because they were males specifically. He sighed.

Trying to keep an open mind, he did try to find a picture of something he could see himself and Sherlock doing. Except for simple embracing or cuddling he came up empty. He couldn't really see himself do any of the graphic sexual acts depicted to or with Sherlock. Was there anything he could see himself letting Sherlock do to him? John closed his eyes to better concentrate. Imagining Sherlock feeling him up while both of them were dressed, Sherlock's hand on his crotch, got a reaction from his penis. Would he get hard like that in real life, if Sherlock was to touch him like that? He didn't want to imagine this particular scenario any further at this time, chose not to touch himself.

 _Okay then._ John didn't know what to make of that, except to accept it. Did that mean he was attracted to Sherlock? Or he just happened to find that scenario arousing? Did that make him bisexual after all? Or was he simply a heterosexual bloke with a possible exception for his best friend? John didn't know, neither felt inclined to try to find an answer right now.

He felt a curious mixture of excitement, surprise and mild disconcertment at what this newfound fantasy could mean. Obviously possibly fantasizing about a certain someone doing something to you didn't necessarily mean you were romantically interested in that person, he told himself. Naturally he'd fantasized about certain women in the past without having been interested in a relationship with them.

Was Sherlock fantasizing about him? John's eyes grew wide looking at those pictures and gifs again ... Sherlock wanted to do such things with him? John pursed his lips. He knew he didn't have any right demanding to know whether Sherlock was fantasizing about him, but felt the need to broach the subject. He closed the website, got off the bed, put his jeans back on, and made his way downstairs taking the laptop along.

Sherlock was still playing his violin. John hadn't heard this particular piece before, this part sounded searching and pensive, but ended on a hopeful note. Was this music an expression of how Sherlock felt right now? John put his laptop on the coffee table and sat in his chair.

Sherlock had been concentrating on the music, tried to be in the here and now as he was playing in order not to worry. Opening his eyes when he was finished playing, he was surprised to see John. "Oh, I didn't hear you." He turned to put his violin away carefully. "Did you want to talk about something?" he asked tentatively with his back still to John.

"Yes! Can you come over here? Please." John's voice sounded demanding, he had both feet up on the edge of the coffee table. Sherlock quietly went to sit in his chair, bracing himself.

"Thank you for having been honest with me about your feelings for me. I'll try to be honest with you as well. So, I did look at the link you sent me, just now. And guess what? It doesn't do anything for me!"

"As I strongly suspected, given that you're heterosexual."

"Given that ... You knew it wouldn't turn me on?"

"As I said, strongly suspected. I'm gay; from the one time I tried to watch heterosexual porn I know it doesn't do anything for me."

John threw his head back and rolled his eyes. "Then what was the point of sending me that link?"

"For your information in case you wonder what it _can_ look like when men are intimate with each other."

"If you 'strongly suspected' that I wouldn't find male/male porn arousing you must also 'strongly suspect' that I'm not really interested in having sex with you! Right?"

"I accept that possibility."

"Then why are you asking me to be in a relationship with you if you know I probably won't want to have sex? Wouldn't you want that? Are you fantasizing about it?"

"I would hope that my romantic partner would be willing to explore intimacy together. I did point out, as you may recall, that I'm willing to forego sex for your benefit. And no. I've chosen not to fantasize about you for the time being."

John could hardly believe that given the pictures and gifs he'd seen on that website. "You're serious? Why wouldn't you want to fantasize about us having sex?"

"I only want to fantasize about you when I know that you return my feelings. Which is not the case now. You yourself are not sure how you feel about me. So I won't. And I do hope you know that having sex does not equal being intimate!" Sherlock did feel quite passionate about that.

 _Wow, he's quite sure of himself. How does he know about these things?_ John raised his eyebrows.

"Well, here's one for you then: hypothetically, what if I decide I can't be with you because I would like to have sex with my romantic partner, but wouldn't want to have sex with you?"

"I would have to accept that."

"You know, I did try to find at least one picture where I thought 'yeah, I can do that with Sherlock', but there was nothing! Nothing except for plain cuddling or embracing, no sex involved. How's that?!"

"We'd be naked?" Sherlock's ears perked up at that.

"Sure, why not, as long as we keep it platonic, right?"

"I can't guarantee I wouldn't get an erection being near you naked."

John closed his eyes and shook his head. The word 'erection' reminded him of his recent fantasy.

"Basically all that watching that link did was make it clear that I can't see myself having sex with a man. Really. Not. At all. At this time." He looked at Sherlock, who appeared unfazed by this declaration, whereas John felt upset. He didn't even know why he was getting upset over this. Sherlock kept quiet, waited for John to continue.

"And then I thought, since apparently I don't want to do anything sexual with you, whether there was anything I'd let you do to me ..." John swallowed. Could he trust Sherlock with this? Would he ridicule him? Could Sherlock help him understand this even if he himself was at a loss? John bit his lip, looked at his hands.

"And...?" Sherlock prompted softly, keeping his face neutral.

"And I thought ... if we were both dressed ... and you felt ... part of my body ... put your hand ... on my ... crotch." John found it very hard to put this out in the open, didn't dare to look at Sherlock yet.

"You found that thought arousing?"

John nodded. He felt kind of ashamed to admit it. He didn't want Sherlock to fantasize about him, yet here he had a fantasy of his own.

"And you're not sure what it means?"

John nodded again, finally looked up at Sherlock.

"You feel confused by this. On the one hand you clearly say you don't want to do anything sexual with me, yet you find this particular thought arousing." Sherlock's face looked just as neutral as before. Apparently he was cool with John revealing this, John noted quietly relieved.

"I guess. Very," he admitted swallowing nervously. "I was wondering whether you could..." here he closed his eyes and grimaced before continuing "help me find out how I react in real life." He sighed and slumped in his chair, feet sliding off the edge of the coffee table. This self-revelation was emotionally exhausting.

At that, Sherlock audibly inhaled and exhaled, put his elbows on his knees, hands steepled under his chin. He scrutinized John's face and posture, thinking for a minute. John felt exposed and nervous.

"I do have boundaries as well, John. One is I will not have casual sex with you. I've asked you to be in a relationship with me, with or without sex is up to you. You're still considering. I will not be your best friend who fulfills your sexual fantasies involving me."

"It's just your hand...," John interjected.

"Still, especially not since at this time you don't return my feelings."

"How am I supposed to know then whether you turn me on?"

"We could kiss, for instance, see if you get hard from that," Sherlock said bluntly. He already knew that John didn't want to kiss him. At this time.

John had nothing to say to that. It began to dawn on him that he had a predicament: he was asking Sherlock to do something that he himself was not willing to do. At this time.

"Keep in mind that, of course, if we were romantic partners, I would certainly consider fulfilling sexual fantasies you may have, as long as we'd do it safe, sane and consensual, safewords and all that."

"Erm, I hadn't thought that far." John started to feel self-conscious and blush. He had no right to ask Sherlock to indulge him.

"Not even an hour ago you checked that I not touch or feel your lower body. Now you ask me to put my hand on your crotch. I can do this only this once, John." John's eyes flicked up, hopeful. Sherlock made a sweeping movement with his arm pointing at the space in front of the coffee table, inviting John to stand there, again giving him room to be able to move away should he feel the need to.

So this was going to happen. John wiped the palms of his hands on his jeans, licked his lips, made his way to where Sherlock indicated. Now Sherlock got up and moved into John's personal space. John looked up at him. His pupils were dilated, face neutral, no trace of ridicule, sneer or disdain. Sherlock was going to do this for John, keep his own emotions or wants out of it.

"Which hand?"

John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face. _This close._ He pointed to Sherlock's right hand.

"Touch only, move my hand or fingers?"

"Touch only."

"Very light, casual, firm, or grip?"

"Firm." Sherlock's breathing was beginning to pick up, he bit his lip.

"Where do you want me to look? At the floor, my hand, another part of your body, over your shoulder, your face?"

John hadn't even thought of that. _He's being considerate._ Letting Sherlock see his face felt too intimate. Sherlock looking at his own hand on John's crotch ... John's penis agreed with that. "Your hand."

"For how long? Very brief, brief, a minute, or longer?"

Again, John hadn't thought of that. "Don't know. We'll see."

"Let me know when you're ready."

"Wait, can I touch you should I want to?"

"You mean you want to put your hand on my crotch? Feel whether I'm aroused?" While establishing the parameters for this 'touch', Sherlock had been glancing at John's crotch from time to time, noticing his jeans progressively getting tighter in the front. His own lounge pants of course were much looser, not showing whether he was aroused or not.

"Not necessarily. I'm not sure where."

"Alright. No groping, though. Please."

"Right. - Go ahead then." John had felt himself get hard as Sherlock kept asking for details. He looked down to see Sherlock's hand move the short distance from his side to firmly touch John's crotch, and with that John's erection, only separated from Sherlock's hand by his jeans.  


"Holy _shit_!" _That's hot!_ Seeing and feeling Sherlock's hand there made him even harder. His heart rate picked up, breathing increased, knees felt weak... he grabbed Sherlock's left elbow to steady himself, put his left hand on top of Sherlock's. This looked even more erotic to him.

"Holy... Sherlock, I had no idea!" John looked at Sherlock's face. As requested, Sherlock kept looking at his own hand, didn't say anything, kept his face neutral.

John knew that, if this was him and a woman he was interested in, he'd want to progress things, move, open his pants, touch the other person to please them as well... However, this was not that. This was him having asked his best friend, who so happened to want to be in a romantic relationship with him, to enact a specific fantasy with a specific touch, and said best friend, who wanted to be together with him, fulfilling said fantasy. Using this to sexually gratify himself was out of the question. John closed his eyes and let himself feel the closeness, pressure and warmth of Sherlock's hand.  


With his eyes closed, did it feel any different than if it was a woman's hand? Of course Sherlock's hand was much larger. And of course Sherlock's hand was attached to his arm which was attached to his body - which was male, which had a penis. No soft pointy breasts, no vagina. John tried to put the rest of Sherlock's body into his mental picture to complete the scene, so it wasn't just Sherlock's hand on his crotch, but picturing the man Sherlock touching him in this way.  


Yes, this was hot. And just like that John became aware that his best friend Sherlock Holmes was indeed not just the most brilliant man he knew, but also had a sexual side, with feelings. This was real. John wanted to know whether and how Sherlock was affected by doing this for John. He opened his eyes, let go of Sherlock's hand, checked his face, which showed the same neutral expression.

"May I touch you? Just briefly?" He couldn't bring himself to say 'your crotch'. When Sherlock nodded after a second, John put his hand there. Even though it hadn't been clearly visible from the outside Sherlock was quite hard in his underwear. John hummed in acknowledgement. Sherlock was hard because of him, a heady thought that moved his own penis, which Sherlock would feel. Touching Sherlock's penis through his lounge pants didn't feel that strange, but was fascinating nonetheless.  


"Wow." John felt relieved and grateful that Sherlock gave him the opportunity to explore this. "Thanks! Do you want to let go and just hug for a bit?"  


"That would be good." Sherlock removed his hand very smoothly to equally smoothly envelop John in his arms, planting a kiss on his hair. It was checked 'yes' after all.  


John hugged back, allowing their lower bodies and clad erections to touch. It felt good, he had to admit to himself. Since Sherlock refused to have casual sex with him, which he didn't want anyway, he could just relax and appreciate how this felt. Just standing here like this with Sherlock was comfortable, erections notwithstanding.

"Hm," he sighed. Sherlock was stroking his back very lightly, then cradling John's head against his shoulder, stroking his hair,... "Hmhmhm," John yawned.

"Do you want to have a shower?" Sherlock asked after a while, putting it this way indicating he didn't want John to disappear in his room just yet. John hadn't paid attention to his waning erection. It had been a long day, a shower before bed would be nice. He could feel that Sherlock was still hard.  


"Just a quick one. Do you want to go first, though?" he offered. That way Sherlock could just cool down, or take care of himself.  


"Alright. Do you want to talk after for a bit?" Sherlock gave John a final squeeze and kiss on his hair before letting go.  


"Yeah, probably a good idea. You go ahead then."  


***  


Sherlock only took five minutes in the shower. Emerging in his t-shirt and lounge pants, carrying his underwear in one hand, he disappeared in his bedroom. John frowned at that but proceeded with his own shower. When he came out Sherlock was sitting on the couch. John chose to sit there as well, leaving about a meter between them, looking at the coffee table, feeling slightly awkward.  


"So? What would you like to talk about?" Sherlock asked, leaving it up to John.  


_He's being considerate again!_ John cleared his troat. "Thank you for letting me explore this like that. I was curious..."  


"And?"  


"Nothing and, really." He wanted to say 'Too bad you're not a woman.'  


"But?"  


"But you're not a woman." There he said it. "I like women. This wasn't bad by any means. And certainly seeing your hand there was, like, really hot... yeah... it was. But I still can't see it. And I still don't know whether I have more than platonic feelings for you. Certainly not right now. Even after that... I'm still confused. Very."  


Sherlock looked at the coffee table as well. He was too quiet.  


"How was this for you? If I may ask."  


"I was surprised at first that you asked me to touch you there, given what you had marked on the table earlier. I appreciate that you trusted me to help you explore this. This was a sexual touch that I am not willing to repeat unless we're together. You understand that I don't want to touch you in a sexual way unless you return my feelings?"  


John frowned. "Yeah, I get that. But since I don't want to have sex with you anyways that shouldn't be an issue."  


Sherlock kept quiet. Did he know something John didn't? Was he missing something?  


"Right. What?"  


"I didn't say anything."  


"What are you not saying, then?"  


"Things may change. You may want me to touch you sexually, like we just did."  


John seriously doubted that, raised his eyebrows. "Really? What makes you say that?"  


Sherlock just shrugged his shoulders non-committally. "We'll see. I'll stick by what you marked on the table for now then, if that's okay with you."  


"That's okay."  


"May I hold your hand for a bit?"  


"Right. Here. Just for a bit." John moved a little closer, lay his hand in the space between them where Sherlock gently took it and held on.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Below is the actual link I have in mind that Sherlock sent John. **Warning:** It contains, in my opinion, tasteful **not-safe-for-work** depictions of naked male bodies and m/m sex. **Do not click the link if you don't want to see such pictures!!**  
> [Don't tell anyone: Archive](http://an0sfw.tumblr.com/archive)


	9. Detour?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to any person who has been violated by non-consensual sex. My heart goes out to you. You are so brave to go on!  
>  **Trigger warnings:** Please do not read if you find the following triggering: Sherlock comes to and realizes that he has been raped while unconscious. - Description of past suicide attempt.  
>  Thank you to [drpepperdiva91](http://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91) for answering whether Sherlock may have been or still may be affected by the rape even though he was unconscious. I do appreciate them! Love reading their stories.  
> Thank you to [KarlyAnne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlyAnne/pseuds/KarlyAnne) for answering questions about rating and tagging of this chapter, and having done some betaing on it!

"Good night, John. Sleep well." Sherlock's soft voice followed John.

"Night. Same." John turned around to look at Sherlock still sitting on the couch before retreating to his room.  


As soon as Sherlock heard John's bedroom door close he buried his face in his hands, then raked his fingers through his hair, bending backwards looked up at the ceiling. "I'm not hurt anymore." _Why_ did he say that? Of course John had been listening attentively! Had Sherlock expected that? "So you were hurt. How?" Neither of them had used the 'r.' word. Of course John now knew that Sherlock had been raped. Caring as he was, he would ask how Sherlock was coping. He had not wanted to remember this, kept the knowledge that he had been brutally violated without his consent in his mind palace.  


~~~~  


Fly feet were walking above his right brow. He could hear its wings buzzing at times. How did a fly get into this basement? It didn't have windows. His spatial memory was still intact then. Someone else in the room was breathing louder than normal. He sensed that something was acutely wrong. His anus hurt. Why? He kept his eyes closed, for now. The room reeked of cigarette smoke, sex and ... blood. He lay prone on the cold chalky floor, legs spread, something pressing them apart. Why was he on the floor like this? He'd come here to shoot up in exchange for giving the dealer head. He opened his eyes. Two empty syringes and the slim rubber hose he'd used as a tourniquet lay not far away. Along with his clothes. All of them. "There, homo slut-hole." Male voice. A hand pulled his ass apart. Sharp pain on the inside of his left cheek. Adding to the pain in his anus. Distracting from it, briefly. A cigarette being ground out. Smell of burning flesh. His flesh. Fear grabbed him as he realized he must have lost consciousness. Missing time. No data. Data now indicating he'd been violated. He felt ill, retched. Sound of a zipper being pulled up. The man between his legs got up. Spit on his back. Amused laughter. "We had a good time with your hole. If you want more of that stuff you like so much we can have more 'fun'. Get lost now!" Kick on his buttocks. Kick in the ribs. He curled up on his side. Kicks to the back of his head. Boot pressing down on the side of his neck, choking him. He coughed, gasped for air. "Slut!" Spit on his face. Footsteps walking away. Lighting another cigarette. Door opening. Creaking of wooden stairs. Hands shaking. Body trembling. Any movement hurts. Five different brands of cigarette butts on the floor. Concentrate on getting out of here. Get dressed. Need to use something to keep blood from getting on clothes. Sock, there. Pain putting clothes on. Need to leave. Safe place? Stay with Peter ...  


~~~~  


Sherlock hadn't told John all the details as he remembered them, only some of them. On the way to where Peter and he stayed underground he'd stopped by a public washroom to clean himself up, wash the dirt off his face, neck and hands. He used moistened paper towel to try to clean up his behind, winced. It was still bleeding. He felt dirty. He wished he could rinse the grunge on him off and the filth in him out. There was going to be no shower for now. Progress to get to his safe place was slow, walking hurt.  


That part of the abandoned underground tunnel where he stayed only had emergency lighting here and there, Peter used flashlights or candles when needed. Sherlock was grateful for that now, it meant Peter wouldn't be able to see him limp or wince. He felt like hiding, lay down on the mat Peter let him use, face to the wall.  


"Hello to you, too," Peter had greeted. "I scored some nice food from that Italian restaurant. Owner's a heart for the down-and-out. Even got some wine."  


Sherlock hadn't turned around.  


"You okay? You should eat and drink while we have some."  


Sherlock kept staring at the wall. He felt numb. If he didn't acknowledge Peter he'd keep bugging him, better play along to be left alone after. He turned around slowly. The lighting was sufficiently dim he felt confident to engage for just a few minutes.  


"You look like shit, man!" was Peter's honest appraisal.  


"Thanks. Had a bit of a rough time." Plausible explanation. He tried to find a position to sit but quickly gave up on that, deciding lying on his side facing his host with his head propped up on his hand was the least painful solution for now.  


Peter had a few aluminum take-away containers lined up beside him, a bottle of red wine, by the looks of it, two paper plates, plastic forks and plastic cups. He smiled proudly. "Here, what do you want: we have spaghetti, lasagne, and a few slices of pizza. I already dropped some off with some friends on the way." He looked expectantly at Sherlock.  


Being addicted to drugs had decreased his appetite substantially. His clothes hid his too thin frame. He'd need to eat and drink at least a little to keep Peter from pestering him about it.  


"Smells good," he lied feigning interest. He wasn't hungry at all. Not for food. "Some spaghetti. Can you cut them up a bit? Please and thank you." His throat hurt, cut up they'd be easier to chew and swallow.  


Peter did as requested, handing Sherlock his portion. "Some wine with that?"  


Sherlock nodded, chewing, indicating with his fork to add more.  


"What happened to your other sock?" Peter had noticed Sherlock's bare ankle sticking out of his grimy left runner when he placed the cup in front of him.  


"Must have lost it." He hadn't taken into account that a one-socked man might encounter inquiries into the whereabouts of the other 'missing' sock.  


"Hm. I don't have an extra one to give to you, sorry, have a job interview tomorrow." They kept eating in silence.

He would have appreciated the taste and texture of the spaghetti before he got addicted. Now they were bland regrettably needed fuel for his body. The wine burned a little going down his throat but gave him a warm glow. When Peter turned his back putting the 'dishes' away, he got up, had a whiz.  


His hands and body were faintly trembling, he was beginning to feel hot. "Thanks for the food and wine. I'll be up early, need to get some 'stuff'. Can I borrow a flashlight?"  


"When are you going to quit that shit?!" He didn't reply. "Here, then. Don't lose it!"  


"Won't. 'm tired. In case I don't see you, have a good day. Night." He lay back down gingerly, face to the wall.  


"Night. See ya."  


He tried to ignore the throbbing pain and discomfort in his anus and the various bruises and abrasions that were increasingly hurting in favor of concentrating on how to get his next fix. He'd need it soon. He had no money. He could still offer to give head in exchange for a hit. He'd be more careful this time. No one else needed to know that he'd been raped.  


~~~~  


He got up around four in the morning. Peter was still sleeping. The borrowed flashlight lit his way to above ground. Someone with good eyesight monitoring the cameras around the city must have spotted him in the dark making his way to a dealer's place because around twenty minutes later Mycroft and a couple of his men pulled up in a black car. Mycroft went on about rehab, Sherlock badly needed a hit. Arguing and a struggle ensued, which he lost in his weakened state. In the car, flanked on either side by bulky men in black suits, he'd kept throwing insults at Mycroft all the way to a private hospital. Sitting hurt, he was getting hoarse, and tired, and exhausted, craving a fix.  


Having noticed the bruising on his brother's face and neck, once at the hospital, Mycroft inquired how he got those. "I fell," only got him a raised eyebrow and request for further physical examination. There was a pointed stare at his one bare ankle. Mycroft had the grace to be quiet about it and keep his deductions to himself as Sherlock was led away to be examined.  


He'd refused to take his clothes off. A male nurse approached to help him out of his jacket and shirt. Which he tolerated. "We'll have to take your trousers off to be able to examine your lower body. Okay?" Seeing a hand reach for the waistband of his trousers, though, he'd panicked. "Don't touch me! Stay away! No!!" He shoved the male nurse to get away. Hands trying to grab him made him scream loudly. "No!! Stay away! No!! No!! Don't touch me!" He heard himself scream, felt terrified, yet unreal. More hands grabbed him. He kicked hard with his legs, fighting to get away. Just as he felt a prick in his upper arm, he saw Mycroft rush into the room, great concern written on his face ...  


~~~~  


He came to lying in a bed covered by warm orange sheets in a very quiet room, wearing short sleeved PJs. Despite that he felt naked. The walls were a pale green. A plain clock hung on the wall to his left, thankfully there was no ticking second hand. The shadow cast by the sun through the window onto the opposite side of the room showed that it was barred. Judging from the angle of the light it was late afternoon. His anus hurt less, thankfully. He'd been out for hours then, sedated to be examined, cleaned up and get his wounds taken care of. Obviously he wasn't the only one anymore who knew he'd been raped.  


A spring in a chair creaked. Footsteps approached his bedside. The person clearing their throat was Mycroft. He didn't want to look at his brother, didn't want to see the pity he presumed would be there.  


" **It is _never_ the victim's fault, Sherlock**." An unequivocal statement. " **You are _not_ to be blamed by anyone, including yourself!** " Firm. It was unusual to hear Mycroft speak with such vehement conviction. Even during their repeated arguing that he enter rehab, Mycroft had stayed composed.  


He didn't say anything, kept his head turned away from his brother. A frustrated breath. Mycroft walked around to the other side of the bed. "Please look at me, Sherlock." He wouldn't. "May I touch you?" He didn't reply. Mycroft didn't touch him.

"You're at a rehab facility to ensure your safety while detoxifying. I've requested specialists in sexual assault counselling be available to you as well. Please try to cooperate with staff, they're here to help you recover from using drugs. Once you are stabilized and structures are in place to try to prevent relapse this can certainly be done on an out-patient basis. Until then, I'm sorry you'll have to stay here for at least a few days. I'll come by again soon. Be well."  


~~~~  


The sexual assault counsellors, a man, or if he preferred, a woman, had introduced themselves, stressed it was _not_ his fault, explained short and long term effects he might experience as a result of having been sexually assaulted, they'd be available anytime he felt the need to talk. He'd listened, and said nothing. His body and mind still wanted drugs, what did he care about possible short or long term effects from rape when he was dealing with withdrawal symptoms. Among other things, he did feel quite sad, though, irritable, nauseous, angry, and he blamed himself. He'd need to get out of this place to get more drugs ...  


~~~~  


Several attempts to get out failed. He wouldn't put it past his brother, who came to see him every day, to pay for extra security. He hated being here, withdrawing from drugs made him quite miserable. He was not a good patient, threw insults at Mycroft every chance he got for the first five days.

He refused to speak with the sexual assault counsellors who showed up every day as well, offering to listen to him. He had nothing to say. Obviously it was his fault, he'd allowed himself to be vulnerable. The fact that he had been unconscious, unable to give consent, did not keep his mind from trying to fill in the blanks. It was hurtful, sad and degrading to have been violated and disrespected like this.  


On day four he began to think about a more permanent solution to his suffering withdrawal and great sadness. Even if he managed to get through this rehab, if he'd relapse he might get raped again during one of his drug binges. Mycroft would try to find and drag him back to rehab, he couldn't suffer that. Death looked preferable.

Day five was spent planning to think of a suitable means and how. The world would be better off without him. No one needed a junkie 'slut' that got himself raped.

Having made up his mind, on day six he was friendly to Mycroft, even laughed with him, after all it would be for the last time. He felt relieved.

~~~~  


He waited till it was dark and the lights out so the hidden camera he'd discovered on day two wouldn't give him away. The unassuming clock on the wall was indeed held in place by a nail when self-adhesive velcro should have been the safer choice. Prize in hand he lay back down in bed on his side, back to the hidden camera, sheet pulled up to his neck, applied the thin strip of fabric he'd managed to tear off his PJ-top hem earlier in the bathroom as a tourniquet, used the sharp nail to open a vein. It wouldn't be that quick ...  
investigating whether there was a God and afterlife had not been important to him so far. Just because _he_ didn't know the answer, if there was one to know, didn't mean God and afterlife did not exist. Granting the possibility that God and afterlife might exist he asked to be forgiven, that he'd be able to stay quiet, that it would be quick and not hurt too much ...  
his blood was warm where it came out of his body, cool and coagulating where it had flowed and settled starting to dry. Relieved yet sad he began to cry but resolved to hold still. There, he noted changes in his perception, he began to feel weak, it did hurt, he felt cold ... soon ... hold still ... rest ... acceptance  


~~~~  


He came to in a hospital room realizing he was still alive. _Shit!!!!!!!!!! How??_ He wanted to feel where he'd cut, investigate the wound, but wasn't able to move his hand over because he was restrained. Bags containing fluids hanging from a metal stand were still attached to his uninjured arm. This was not acceptable! He began to pull on the restraints, became agitated.

Mycroft, who had fallen asleep in a visitor chair came to stand by his side, he looked grave. "Sherlock, brother, I'm so glad you're still alive!"  


He voiced his being pissed off: he screamed.

***  


Sherlock heaved a long sigh, sitting on the couch with his eyes closed. Allowing himself to remember this period and events in his life felt exhausting.  


Mycroft steadfastly refused to tell him how his rescue came about. Sherlock would have liked to know, to prevent 'interference', in case he found himself in similar circumstances and sought that 'solution'. He had never wondered what it had been like for Mycroft to see his brother live through this difficult period, also surviving an attempt on his own life. He had not asked, and he had not thanked him for his support.  


He was not the same person now as he'd been back then. Getting and staying clean had been a process. He had attended some counselling sessions to strengthen his coping skills, but he never spoke about his having been raped. He'd met Lestrade, The Work giving him purpose, then John, and now ...

now John knew he'd been raped. Given that John was heterosexual it stood to reason that he liked penetrating sex, with women, so if he came around to try it with Sherlock he'd probably want to top first. Would he even want to put his penis in that place of Sherlock's body that had been abused by others, or be disgusted by it? Would Sherlock even be able to let John have this part of his body, give up control voluntarily when before control had been taken from him against his will? It was probably for the best that for now John did not want to have sex with him, nor he with John since John did not return his feelings.  


Looking back at his drug addiction, rape and rehab, it felt like a detour: Would he be the same person he was now even if he had not lived through all that? Did living through those difficulties serve any purpose? Had he been changed by those experiences, and if yes, how? Would he still have met John? Would John's attitude and feelings be different towards him if he did not know about Sherlock's past?

Real detours in real life served to bring someone to the intended destination via a different route. So yes, he would still have met John! He couldn't undo his past, this detour. And yes, those experiences did contribute to shaping the person he was now. His 'detour' did serve a purpose. He hoped to continue sharing his life with John.  


It had been a long day. He felt tired, made his way to his bedroom. Some day he'd have to thank Mycroft for his 'interference', for saving his life - so he was alive now to be with John.  


_John ..._  


***


	10. Mycroft, brother

Sherlock lay in bed already, his phone on the nightstand, as usual, one never knew when he might be called upon to help investigate and solve crime. He thought about that he should thank his brother again. Sending a text message would be so much easier than saying it face to face. Better do it now while he felt like it. He reached over, picked up his phone, paused briefly to formulate his thoughts, then typed

_Mycroft, brother, thank you for having supported me back then! SH_

Mycroft would remember when exactly he had used "brother" placed like that, which "back then" Sherlock was referring to. He hit send. Not even twenty seconds later a reply came. Curious, he read

_I still support you, Sherlock. Sleep well, brother. MH_

Sherlock placed his phone back on the nightstand, turned the light out, tucked himself in the duvet. _Message received._ He would sleep well tonight.

***

Mycroft lay in bed already, his phone on the nightstand, as usual, one never knew when he might be called upon to help the British Government orchestrate behind-the-scenes intelligence or diplomacy. The special vibration reserved for text messages from his brother alerted him to such a relatively rare occurrence, at this late hour. He turned the light back on, reached for his phone, read the text.

_Ah, "Mycroft, brother,"... that time then..._

~~~~

When it became clear that Sherlock had become a drug addict, not just a recreational user anymore, he'd decided to cut his brother's allowance off. It had been cocaine at first, then the occasional heroin, as evidenced by the dealers he frequented. He need not provide the funds for Sherlock to indulge this habit. Surely lack of money would force him to quit.

Not so. He'd been notified that a camera in a shady part of town had picked up his brother getting beaten up outside someone's house, probably a dealer's or creditor's. Looking over the shoulder of the person assigned to follow his brother's movements throughout the city via CCTV feeds he'd asked "Where is he?! He was just there!"

The occasional brief sightings during the next two weeks didn't reveal where he was staying or how he was supporting himself. From the few stills it was obvious, though, that he was growing more gaunt, obviously losing weight rapidly. Worried, he'd decided to intervene, contacted a private rehab facility.

⋅⋅⋅

It was still dark when word reached him that Sherlock was about town, apparently on the way to another dealer. When they caught up with him his pleading that he needed help with quitting drugs met with resistance. In the end two of his men had to wrestle Sherlock into the car. Of course he'd noticed his brother's one bare ankle but tactfully chose not to ask.

He'd been relieved when they reached the rehab facility. Only to notice recent abrasions and bruising on Sherlock's face and neck, which didn't fit with a "fall", as claimed. When he heard his chilling screams he'd rushed into the examination room to see him still kicking to get away.

The only way Sherlock could be examined was sedated. A medical team cleaned him up, tended to his wounds - and took samples of his attackers' DNA which they had left in and on his body. He had used his one sock to keep blood from seeping out... To learn that his brother had been brutally raped was very sobering. He felt sad for Sherlock. Maybe it could have been prevented if only he'd found him sooner.

Hours later, when Sherlock woke up he told him "It is _never_ the victim's fault, Sherlock. You are _not_ to be blamed by anyone, including yourself!" - Sherlock kept his head turned away. He needed to respect his brother not wanting to be touched. As much as he himself felt the need to reassure him.

He arranged for sexual assault counsellors to be available 24/7, yet they were ignored. He made time during the first several days to visit every day, briefly. When asked, Sherlock did tell him where he'd stayed, the location of the sexual assault, that he'd been unconscious for it, therefore did not know who had hurt him. - He was grateful his brother had been spared actual memories of the sexual assaults.

He had the crime scene investigated thoroughly. The DNA samples were expedited. His brother had been violated by five men! They would be found. He'd operate outside the legal system and ensure they would not be able to hurt anyone ever again. His best assassin would see to it, make them vanish without a trace. Dealers and criminals tended not to file missing persons reports.

⋅⋅⋅

Sherlock was quite miserable withdrawing from drugs, seemed to want to pass the misery along by insulting him any chance he got. On day six, however, his demeanor had changed. He was friendly, even smiled. He thought off and on about this drastic change throughout the rest of the day.

He was lying in bed already when it struck him that sudden lifting of spirits was one of several possible suicide warning signs. Sherlock, having decided to go ahead with a suicide attempt, could feel and exhibit relief that his perceived suffering would soon be over. Given the circumstances this was the most probable explanation.

Alarmed, he called the rehab facility. "I need you to check on my brother, Sherlock Holmes, right now. Possible suicide attempt. Hurry!!"

The rehab facility called back: Sherlock had lost a lot of blood from a self-inflicted wound, they managed to stop the bleeding, paramedics were with him right now, he'd be taken to the nearest hospital.

If he had thought that he was different than or not as sentimental as other, ordinary, people he was proven wrong. He could not keep himself from saying the only prayer he seriously meant in his life thus far - "God, let him live!" - to a God he didn't know yet.

Seeing Sherlock lying in his hospital bed, attached to IV lines and restrained, knowing that he had wanted to die, tears came to his eyes. He had stepped close, kissed his head and touched his shoulder briefly, then settled in a visitor chair. To be woken up by Sherlock screaming his frustration out, pulling on the restraints. How true: "Sherlock, brother, I'm so glad you're still alive!"

⋅⋅⋅

Since Sherlock had nothing better to do than be a very irritating patient, as soon as it was safely possible his rehab treatment was moved to out-patient basis, which suited him much better. Progress was slow, but progress nonetheless. Soon his involvement with New Scotland Yard, thanks to Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, contributed a great deal to keep his brother's mind occupied and help him stay clean.

As far as he was concerned, the best thing that happened was that he'd met Dr. John Watson. They lived together, obviously had become friends, and...??

~~~~

He typed his reply. Hit send. Something was going on with his brother, he'd changed. Reading the most recent report on his general activities of the past week could wait till the morning. He'd sleep well tonight.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a simple quiet slow song about God comforting us, and that we can run to him:  
> ["Song Of Solomon" from Martin Smith (official lyric video)](https://youtu.be/zyIR4N5EFt8) (link used with permission of integritymusic.com)  
> Maybe Sherlock could have found it comforting going through and recovering from that difficult period in his life. Maybe you can be comforted where you're at.


	11. Breakfast, interrupted

John lay in bed, not quite ready to go to sleep yet. Sherlock didn't appear distressed when he had related earlier in the evening that he'd been raped. Nevertheless, John should have shown concern and asked how he was coping instead of getting his best friend to fulfill a sexual fantasy of his. He felt somewhat disgusted with himself.

He wished he could be with Jamie right now, find comfort in her female body, which would be so much more familiar than Sherlock's. He'd have to get this sorted out soon. Things should not go on like this much longer.

He tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to stop thinking about Sherlock's hand on his crotch. He felt miserable. Maybe if he masturbated thinking about an imaginary woman, nicely shaped female breasts, rubbing an imaginary clitoris with his fingers, sliding his penis into an imaginary vagina, he'd feel better. So he did. But it didn't make him feel that much better. He cleaned himself up, still upset with himself tossed his underwear on the ground, and eventually fell asleep.

***

John woke up to the smell of eggs and bacon. He put on his morning gown, made his way downstairs, stopped by the bathroom quickly before proceeding to the kitchen to investigate.

Indeed, Sherlock was stirring scrambled eggs (vegetarian feed, free-run) in a pan, the bacon (raised humanely) already draining between paper towels on a plate. He was wearing a mid-calf-length natural looking dressing gown that John hadn't seen before. He approached to have a closer look.

"Good morning, John! Did you sleep well?"

"Hm, morning. I guess." He didn't want to recall how his conscience had bugged him. "Haven't seen this on you before. What kind of material is it?"

"It's a mixture of linen and raw silk. Would you like to touch it?"

"Hng, yes!" John let his hand drift down Sherlock's upper arm. "Very nice," he said admiringly.

"Do you like the look and feel of the material? Or seeing it on me?"

John swallowed. "I guess the look and feel... On you? Possibly both?" He felt uncomfortable. God, what was happening? Why did he want to touch Sherlock seeing him in these new clothes?

"I have new underwear as well. Would you like to see that?"

"Erm...," John covered his eyes briefly with his hand, "not right now. - What is it, though?" he asked, curious.

"Leek green organic plant-dyed cotton boxer-style briefs," Sherlock said, proud of his choice of color and material. John's eyes grew a little wider at that. _Bingo!_

"You sure you don't want to see them?" Sherlock tried to suppress smiling at John's obvious reaction to him.

John considered. If he was to look at those he would probably want to touch them, including Sherlock's private parts in them. Which Sherlock would not let him do since that would be sexual touching. _Shit!_ His penis was reacting to the thought of seeing Sherlock in that particular underwear. _Goodness!_

"Not right now. Thanks for offering. Want me to make some tea and toast to go with that?"

"Sure. Would you like a hug?" Sherlock offered.

John nodded, relieved that Sherlock wasn't put off by his new appreciation of him wearing natural fabrics. It was a warm, short embrace, meant to reassure him.

They sat down for breakfast, the food split evenly between them for once, John noted. He cleared his throat, needed to get this off his chest.

"Sherlock, I want to apologize. You shared about a very difficult time in your life with me yesterday, and I didn't even ask how you're coping. I'm sorry. How are you dealing with this?"

"You mean the fact I was raped by five men while I was unconscious?" Sherlock chose to pronounce the "r." word.

John blinked. "You didn't mention there were five men that raped you. But yes, that." His fists clenched. He felt sick and furious at the same time. He'd have killed the bastards himself! No doubt Mycroft would have had that looked after already.

Sherlock put his toast down, first looked at his plate, then at John directly. "I usually don't talk about this, John. Ever."

John looked back. Sherlock's breathing was picking up, he swallowed. His face showed upset, anger, sadness. Obviously he was still affected. John wondered briefly whether he should have picked another time to address this. He kept looking at Sherlock, his face open, prepared to listen, refusing to back down.

Sherlock only saw loving concern and patience on John's face. No disgust. No ridicule. No 'How could you have been so _stupid_ to get yourself raped?!' like he'd asked and reproached himself at times. Still did. He couldn't hold John's steady gaze, looked at the table, the wall, eventually shrugged his shoulders. His breathing was still slightly accelerated. He felt like hiding in the bathroom and crying. He hadn't cried since that night he'd wanted to die. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath. Resolved to be honest with John he had.

"Just because I was unconscious doesn't mean I wasn't aware when I came to or tried to fill in the blanks later. Mycroft stressed I shouldn't blame myself, that it wasn't my fault. But of course I did." He paused, looked at his hands. "Evidently five men 'used' my body. I know they're all dead." He paused again, looked at John. "Several days after having been admitted to rehab I tried to kill myself. That's how I coped. Not."

John hadn't expected to hear this. Concerned, he reached his hand across the table to cover Sherlock's, squeezed it. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock." He didn't let go right away.

"Even though I didn't know one of the syringes contained cocaine, didn't know I'd loose consciousness, knowing that _it's not my fault_ **doesn't help**! I still blame myself at times!"

"Can I come round?" John asked feeling the need to be closer to his friend.

Sherlock nodded. John let go of Sherlock's hand, brought his chair around the table with him. He sat down so he could look at Sherlock, elbows propped on his knees, chin on his hands.

"I'm glad you didn't succeed in killing yourself, Sherlock, I mean it," John said softly.

Sherlock heaved a sigh, nodded, "Right."

"How are you coping now?"

"I hadn't thought about it in a long while, until you asked how I'd met Peter. I answered your questions."

"Yes... And?"

"I'm mostly angry with myself that I put myself into a situation that allowed others to take advantage of me. I'm angry at the men that did it. I still feel violated," Sherlock said trying to sound matter-of-factly, though his anger was palpable. "I don't know whether you're disgusted by what happened and therefore wouldn't want to be intimate with me that way, nor whether I could let you if you wanted to," he said in a quieter voice tinged with regret and painful worry.

John reached and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder briefly. "Sherlock, look at me, please."

Sherlock considered for a moment. He looked very sad when he turned slightly to look at John.

"I'm not disgusted, Sherlock! You have to know that. I love you as my friend. I'm sorry this happened to you!" At this point Sherlock looked at the floor. " _If_ we were together," John continued, "we'd cross that particular bridge of whether or not to be intimate that way when the time comes."

Academic medical knowledge was no substitute for empathy gained through personal experience. He'd never had a girlfriend that had been raped, therefore not had a personal reason to ask himself how he would deal with such knowledge, how he'd feel about putting his penis into a lover's so very private and personal part of their body that had been violated, or how this would be for his partner.

Tears were starting to form in his eyes as the possible pain for both partners facing this began to dawn on him. Sherlock had looked at this with him in mind.

"For me love is between two people, Sherlock. It means that I want to love and accept my partner, as they are, including their past and their body as it is, meet them where they're at, and help them move forward, together."

Sherlock looked back up at him when he paused, encouraged. Once again he appreciated John's goodness and moral strength, and the fact that this steadfast man was indeed his best friend.

"And you don't have to live with that anger. Have you forgiven those men, and yourself?"

Sherlock's anger surged at this simple question. "What?! Forgive?! What the _fuck _...?! They're dead! I was violated! I'm still alive!"__

John's eyes widened at Sherlock's outburst. _Obviously not then..._ "Well, yes,... You can _decide_ to forgive them and yourself. It just means you can consciously decide not to carry the burden of that anymore. Doesn't matter that they're dead, obviously. It can take a while for your feelings to change. - If you choose not to forgive, eventually you very likely will become bitter. And believe me, you don't want to get there!!"

John's firmness on that last point could be the result of having personal experience with this topic. "You _chose_ to forgive someone that hurt you?" Sherlock wondered.

John swallowed, he hadn't planned to mention it. "Ya... I was angry at whoever shot me, which ended my military career."

"What if it was a random bullet?" Sherlock's curiosity was kindled.

"Hm... It hadn't occurred to me that it could have been _random_. In that case I still would have been angry with God for letting it hit me, I'd have to forgive God. But I always felt that I was shot deliberately.

"Before I was medivaced out of Afghanistan a military chaplain stopped by and prayed with me for healing, comfort, strength, that sort of thing. I remember distinctly that he also prayed something like 'Father, _we_ forgive the person that shot John...' I've thought about that sometimes. In a way he prayed it for me, before I could do it myself."

"Did it help?"

"Yeah, I think so..." John's eyes took a faraway look for a few seconds as he remembered, before refocussing on Sherlock. "You know I was _very_ depressed over getting medically discharged, before I met you."

Sherlock nodded. This had been obvious to him.

"I can't imagine how much worse it would have been if I hadn't forgiven the person that shot me. If that had developed into bitterness over that on top of the depression. I really don't know if I could have survived that." Back then he had looked at his handgun wondering whether he should use it to find relief often enough.

It was hard to acknowledge that truth: Sherlock had actually tried to kill himself before John had contemplated and been tempted to do it. They both could have died. Yet here they were.

"How are you feeling now?" John asked, still concerned, yet glad they were having this conversation.

"Less angry. I'm trying to understand what you're saying, John."

"That's good... Please do consider it! - Hug?"

Their chairs were close enough it was easy just to lean into each other and embrace, which Sherlock was all too glad to do. _Hmmm..._

Their breakfast had gone cold in the meantime: cold eggs, cold bacon, cold toast, cold tea.

"How about we warm up the bacon and eggs and I make fresh tea? Come help?" John asked.

Together they got up, John moved his chair back. Sherlock put the bacon and eggs back in the pan. John put the kettle on.

"Can I touch that fabric again?"

"Sure."

Sherlock smiled, and John was so glad to see it.

***


	12. Thanks be to Adonai!

After breakfast they'd settled into their chairs. Sherlock was busy with his laptop, determined to see whether there were any interesting requests for his skills as consulting detective, while John had been prompted by their earlier conversation about forgiveness and God to reflect on his faith and take stock of his spiritual life.

Aside from a couple of funerals, a service put on by the protestant army chaplain on his base in Afghanistan had been the last one he had attended for himself. Trying to salvage life from the cruelty, gruesomeness and heartache of warfare was challenging for any doctor. He had found that taking time to contemplate life through, with and for Jesus, his Saviour, gave him hope, comfort and strength.

During the time of his military service he saw his purpose in life as saving people's lives using his medical training and skills, attempts to reduce suffering. Getting shot changed that. Naturally he'd asked himself "Why?", "Why me?", "Why now?", " _Why, God?_ "... Maybe he'd been too absorbed in feeling depressed to hear the answer, if one was given...  


"I think I need to go to church today," John announced. "Last time I received communion was in Afghanistan... Want to come along?" He was using a website - easy enough to remember gaychurch.org - Harry had mentioned to him several years ago to look for churches near Baker Street.

Sherlock looked up, surprised. "You believe in God?"  


"One doesn't have to believe to go to church," John pointed out. "Remember what I answered when you asked me what I'd say if I was dying?"

"Please, God, let me live. That you didn't have to use your imagination," Sherlock supplied, John's answer etched in his memory.  


"Which God do you think I asked that of?"  


Sherlock thought for a few seconds, then replied, "The same one Peter talked to about me? He also mentioned Jesus."  


"Right, sounds like Peter also believes in Jesus Christ, what's stated in the Nicene Creed."  


Sherlock's questioning look indicated he didn't know what this specific Creed, certainly non-essential for crime solving, stated.  


John kept looking at a couple more church websites until a certain one caught his interest. "Listen to this: 'We seek to be an inclusive, adventurous and welcoming Christian community, honouring God and one another'. _Adventurous_ , hm... They also have a lesbian, gay, bisexual and trans group meeting once a month. Want to come?" John asked again, looked at Sherlock who shook his head.  


"No? Alright. Want the link?" He checked for Sherlock's response, which was affirmative. "There. Service starts at 11, I need to get going."

After powering down his laptop he dashed into the bathroom for a quick shower, brushed his teeth, then swiftly took the stairs up to his room to get changed. Emerging a few minutes later, wearing ordinary clothes, he descended with bounding steps. Sherlock wondered whether John's apparent enthusiasm to get to this church service was comparable to the eagerness he often felt when called to a crime scene.  


John put his coat on, but came back over to Sherlock. "I'll take the Tube. Should be back before 2. You know, I'm not perfect. I know they're dead, but right now I hate those men for what they did to you! I would have liked to see them suffer!"

It was gratifying for Sherlock to feel John's fierce protectiveness of him.  


"Here," John offered his hand to Sherlock to take it, "I'll just pray quickly."  


Sherlock took John's hand, surprised. John closed his eyes, bowed his head, simply said "Lord God, I know they're dead, but we choose to forgive the men that raped Sherlock, in Jesus' name, Amen." He opened his eyes, lifted his head. "There," he briefly squeezed Sherlock's shoulder.

"You can talk to God anytime you want. Besides, he knows all your thoughts anyways. See you in a bit." John pressed a kiss on top of Sherlock's head before turning to leave.  


"Thanks, John! Hope you have a good time." _Hurry back! I'll miss you..._

***  


Right after John left, Sherlock read about the Nicene Creed.  Because this God-Jesus-Holy Spirit-faith thing was important to John he wanted to learn more and investigate. Yet he closed his laptop in frustration, for some of it didn't make sense to his logical mind. How could people, including Peter and John, believe _all that_? And what about this Jesus Christ? _Who_ was able to die and rise from the dead?? He'd check out that church website later, it'd better be more helpful!  


Sulking, he went to lie on the couch. If John was right and God knew all of one's thoughts, why bother talking to/with him? He was grateful, though, that John had talked to God about them forgiving the men that had raped him. Since he had thanked Mycroft last night for supporting him back then, he could at least try to thank this God for... what?  


"Well, God...," he started tentatively, "John says he believes in you... he does. I don't understand a lot of this faith stuff. Anyways... as you will remember, when I tried to kill myself I had asked that it would be quick and not hurt. It wasn't quick and it did hurt, I didn't even die! So, I guess thanks for not answering that prayer, that I didn't die. Thank you that I can live with John, here. Keep him safe! - I've asked him to be in a relationship with me. He's thinking about it. I don't know what I'll do if he says 'no'. You know all that..." he stated plainly. "I love him. Help me to accept whatever he decides. And to be able to live with it." Tears were coming to his eyes. _Sentiment!_ He wiped at his eyes and nose with his dressing gown. "Anyways, that's it for now. Thanks for listening. Talk to you again some other time..."  


He got up, tried to think of something useful to do until John would come back, but tears kept coming to his eyes, so he sat back down for a while and just cried silently, believing that God knew and saw all of it.  


***  


A light drizzle fell softly as John made his way to Baker Street Station. While taking the stairs and escalator down to the underground platform he remembered that what he'd said to Sherlock, "God knows all your thoughts anyways", applied to him as well. A bible verse came to mind, he sighed.

God knew exactly what he'd fantasized about, that he liked to touch Sherlock wearing natural fabrics, that he wanted to fantasize more about Sherlock's hands in particular, but still didn't really want Sherlock to fantasize about him. Did that make him a hypocrite? Did he love Sherlock more than his platonic best friend? Or was it just plain lust he felt? For being a professing Christian, it wasn't pleasant to be confronted with his own so-obvious humanity.

Struggling with these realizations and questions, the two stops before he arrived at his destination passed quickly. Once he was above ground again, he resumed his way to the church where he was greeted warmly, given a service sheet and song book. The church felt wide and inviting inside, the people already there represented a diverse community indeed. He fit right in, in a pew closer to the front, between a lesbian couple to his left and a young man to his right that, despite exhibiting signs of being still high on something, had felt the urge to come to church here.  


"Blessing and peace to all who are here today! We welcome you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ wherever you are on your life journey," the person leading the service greeted those assembled. The service took it's course as outlined in the service sheet with singing, bible reading, the people greeting each other, prayers...

Occasionally John would glance over at the young man, as a doctor he felt the need to check that he was alright. He wondered what stage of being addicted or in recovery he might be in. Reminded that Sherlock might not have survived if things had gone differently, his thoughts started to drift and he began to pray quietly.  


"God, I thank you for Sherlock. Thank you for preserving his life and health, that his suicide attempt failed, and he's still clean. Keep him safe! Bring healing where he may still suffer from having been raped. - Thank you, again, for letting me live when I was shot. You did answer that prayer... Thank you that I can work again as a doctor, that we're friends and I can help him with The Work. - You know I like being with women... that he's asked me to be with him... just... give me wisdom... in Jesus' name." _...Shit!_  


He used the period of silence during confession and absolution to talk to God about several things he felt were not right in his life at this time, where he felt he'd missed the mark. It was good to acknowledge those things and be assured of God's forgiveness through Jesus.  


Since this church was part of the Anglican Communion and Church of England, it required that people who wanted to receive communion were baptized, which he was. When it was time he joined others going forward.

It had been several years, so he very much appreciated this opportunity to be able to receive the piece of bread, which he kept in his hand, and take a sip of the wine from the chalice, he felt happy. He thanked God, and Jesus for his sacrifice, made his way back to his seat, where he sat down contemplating what Jesus had done for him. Grateful, thanking Jesus, he put the piece of bread in his mouth, chewed a bit, then swallowed.  


Soon the service would be over. The young man beside him had come down from whatever he'd been high on, now actively sang along with the last song of the service. Refreshments were to follow the benediction. John was glad he came here today.  


***  


Part of Mycroft's Sunday morning after-breakfast routine was to briefly look over a short report on Sherlock's general activities of the past week, contained in a slim blue binder, waiting for him on the desk in his study at home. Comfortably settled in his plush chair with another cup of tea at hand he opened the binder and read.  


Everything appeared normal until yesterday afternoon. Sherlock had bought some clothes, not unusual, yet the retailers where he got them were not the ones he usually bought from. What the items had in common was that they were made of 'natural' fabrics. _hm..._  


Since John Watson lived with his brother, the binder also contained a sheet about his general activities of the past week. Only one thing was out of the ordinary there, he had a date with a woman, Thursday evening. The surveillance photo showed a pretty female, more the 'natural' type: Jamie Marsden. Was Sherlock hoping to impress John by emulating Ms. Marsden's 'natural' look?  


Sherlock and John did not know that he had tiny cameras installed in their apartment, save their bedrooms and bathroom. Access to the data was only available to him or whomever he authorized. He did not mean to spy on them in the privacy of their apartment per se, but he did feel strongly that there were a number of possible extraordinary circumstances where being able to see and/or hear what happened might be crucial to be able to help. It was a rather grim list, including but not limited to threats of or actual violence, explosions, kidnappings, attempted murder, drug abuse, attempted suicide...  


Tempting as it was to satisfy his curiosity, Sherlock possibly expressing romantic interest in John was not on this list and therefore did not warrant that he watch Saturday evening's video. He could have a friendly chat with John to find out where things were at between them.  


He picked up the receiver of his landline. "Trixie," - Anthea had the day off - "please let me know the whereabouts of Dr. Watson."  


"Yes, Sir, I'll call you as soon as I find out."  


Mycroft smiled sadly and shook his head. In the past John had only dated women. What chance did Sherlock have?

His phone rang, he picked up. "Yes?"

"Sir, Dr. Watson entered St. James's Church, 197 Piccadilly, 10 minutes ago. He's still there. Service started at 11."  


"Thank you, Trixie. Please send my car around, I'll be leaving shortly."  


***  


Mycroft was not in the habit of attending church services for himself. Of course he knew of this church but had not been inside, it felt spacious. He was greeted warmly, handed a service sheet and song book. As he was not able to locate John right away he took a seat in one of the back rows. By listening to what was said and sung and comparing it with the service sheet he found how far along it was. There was the confession with time for quiet reflection, then absolution, receiving communion was coming up soon. Maybe John would go forward and he'd be able to spot him.  


Indeed, when the time came he recognized John. He did notice, too, that it was a diverse group of people that had assembled here. While John made his way and waited to receive communion he mused about the fact that they were going to meet inside a church, where people that believed in God came to worship him, others that did not believe came seeking.

There had been that one time where he couldn't help himself but had extended belief that this God would be able to act on his brother's behalf... His brother lived! He felt the need to pray, "God, thank you for answering my prayer back then, that Sherlock is alive. Thank you also for John, that he's alive. Keep them safe! - Thank you that they're friends. I don't know what's going to happen with them, but _Sherlock has to stay safe_... please!" He realized he was pleading with God to keep his brother safe.

Sighing, he had to acknowledge that, having witnessed the aftermath of one suicide attempt, he should not assume that this had the potential to get dangerous. His brother was stronger now and had grown more mature. He hadn't even spoken with John yet.  


The last song of the service was followed by the benediction. After that people started to leave the church, mingled, chatted, or went to get refreshments. And there was John, getting up, bowing his head before turning to leave. He looked rather happy, Mycroft noted. When he spotted Mycroft his smile only widened.  


"Hello, Mycroft, why am I not surprised to see you here?"  


"Hello, John, may I speak with you? We can talk outside in the garden," he suggested.  


Remarkably, John kept smiling. "Sure. Did you enjoy the service?"

"I arrived just before confession, so missed some. But yes, I had time to reflect, which I hope will be positive," Mycroft paraphrased the fact that he had prayed.  


They made their way outside into the adjoining church garden. A light drizzle was still falling.  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Royal Army Chaplains' Department](http://www.army.mod.uk/chaplains/chaplains.aspx) 
> 
> [St James's Church Piccadilly London](http://www.sjp.org.uk/) (link used with permission!)
> 
> [What do you make of Jesus? An LGBT perspective](http://www.sjp.org.uk/uploads/1/6/5/7/16572376/pride_lgbt_30_june_2013_various.pdf) (pdf - St James's Piccadilly, sermon 30 June 2013)
> 
> The bible verse John was reminded of is Hebrews 4:13 "Neither is there any creature that is not manifest in his sight: but all things are naked and opened unto the eyes of him with whom we have to do." (King James version) - "Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account." (New International Version)


	13. Lacrimation tissues

The smell of fall, moist earth and decomposing leaves filled the humid air as they made their way to one of the alcoves in Southwood Garden, as the garden beside the church was called.

"I have to thank you for getting Sherlock into rehab back then! You helped save his life."

They were walking side by side, so Mycroft didn't see John's face as he said this. He had not expected such an acknowledgement from John.

"How are things between the two of you?" Mycroft came straight to the point. They had arrived at the alcove, now faced each other.

"Good. Why are you asking?" There had to be a specific reason why Mycroft wanted to talk to him, on a Sunday no less.

"I worry about him. At times. Less since you've become _friends_ ," he admitted, stressing the nature of their relationship as far as he knew it. "Have there been any recent changes?"

Maybe Mycroft was fishing for confirmation, but John didn't want to tell him that Sherlock had asked him to be in a romantic relationship with him. Given Sherlock's recent revelations, though, he could understand Mycroft's concern if he suspected that their relationship was changing but wasn't sure which way.

"For one, he's much more honest," _come to think of it_ , "with me," he added. "I ran into Peter Barnes yesterday. He wouldn't say how they met, said I should ask Sherlock. Which I did. We've been talking..." Anything he'd mention in this regard Mycroft knew already, so he wasn't revealing any confidence.

"Yes, I remember Peter."

"Nice of you to get him a job and flat! - Sherlock told me what happened... Five men, Mycroft, and he tried to kill himself!" His still lingering anger, concern and sadness about what his friend had suffered were apparent in his voice. He looked to the ground, wiped his face with his hand. "God knows I needed to do that for myself as well: before I came here I prayed with him that we forgive these men. - He still blames himself at times even though he knows it wasn't his fault. He needs to forgive himself..."

A significant change indeed, Mycroft noted: Sherlock opened up to John about what he'd refused to talk about with anyone else since it had happened. It showed how much he trusted John. He was glad for his brother. And yet...

"You understand that, given his past, if there was a negative change in your relationship with my brother he might 'struggle'," he voiced his concern.

John felt like telling Mycroft off, that their relationship was none of his business, that he should stay the fuck out of it and leave them alone while they figured things out. But, Mycroft was the elder brother, just like he was Harry's older brother, and as such they would look out for their younger sibling, respectively.

"Right. What would you consider a positive change?"

"A 'happy announcement'?" Mycroft harked back to the first time he and John had met.

John felt speechless at Mycroft's implicit approval of him being his brother's boyfriend/partner/significant other. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Right," John said, again. "So, what you're saying is that you'd be happy if Sherlock and I became a couple. - You see, I'm heterosexual." _So far._ "Believe me, I honestly do not know whether the 'happy announcement' you apparently hope for will happen." John looked at Mycroft, sincere and somber.

"I see." _Not there yet, then._ "If you can, please be so kind and inform me either way, so I can prepare myself for eventualities," Mycroft said with a mild smile as if he was talking about the weather forecast and not his brother who was currently still clean and unharmed, "or be happy for you and sing 'Oh, Happy Day'."

John had never heard Mycroft ask anything of him this politely. It showed that he cared for his brother, deeply.

"I can guess which eventualities you are referring to, but I refuse to speculate on that." John did not want to admit that he had thought about how Sherlock would react if he said no as well. "Do you know what that song is about?"

"Yes, I do. - Would you like a ride back to Baker Street?"

"You can drop me off at Baker Street Station, I'll walk from there."

"Very well." Mycroft called for his car. When it arrived less than a minute later they got in.

John kept quiet, he just wanted to get home, have something to eat and relax the rest of the day before he'd be back at the clinic tomorrow morning. A case would be a welcome distraction for Sherlock, and him.

When they were getting close to Baker Street Station Mycroft cleared his throat. "Would you like to accompany me to target practice sometime?"

"Seriously?" Mycroft hadn't offered that before. This seemed to move into Mycroft-wants-to-spend-time-with-his-possibly-future-brother-in-law territory.

"Yes, it's good to keep one's skills up."

"That's true. I'll think about it. - You'll hear from either or both of us regarding what you asked, should such a time come. Good day!"

"Good day, John! Say 'hello' to my brother, please. Maybe he could benefit from target practice as well. He's certainly welcome to join us."

"Will do." With that John got out of the car and resolutely walked home. He wasn't quite sure what to make of Mycroft reaching out to them like this. He doubted Sherlock would actually come along for target practice, probably he'd think that as a consulting detective he didn't need it.

***

As Sherlock kept crying quietly for a while he'd brought a box of tissues from the bathroom into the living room to blow his running nose and dab his eyes. He didn't feel particularly upset really, just sad, but his lacrimal glands kept producing tears, also sending them through his nasolacrimal canals, hence his nose was running. _Pent-up emotions..._

There was really nothing he could do to influence John's decision to be in a relationship with him. His offer to forego sex, if John so wished, didn't seem to weigh in much. He felt quite helpless about the fact that for all intents and purposes John was heterosexual.

When no more tears came, for what he hoped would be a good long time, he did feel lighter and relieved, even reassured. He got to think of this faith-in-Jesus Christ thing again. The link John had sent him was for St James's Church Piccadilly. According to their website they were part of the Anglican Communion within the world-wide Christian Church.

John had said something about receiving communion. A Wikipedia search about communion (sacrament) led to Eucharist where he skipped straight to 4.3 Anglican, which linked to the main article "Anglican eucharistic theology". He found it too long and confusing, frustrated gave up on reading it after the fourth paragraph. He was a consulting detective after all, not a theologian.

SJP's website said regarding the eucharist: "Much has been written about it - perhaps too much. Best to experience it, critically investigate it, and seek out someone who can talk with you about it." They did also say that "All baptised people from all Christian traditions are invited" to receive communion. Obviously John was baptised then since he went to receive it. So if he wanted to experience it for himself he'd have to be baptised. Maybe he was already. Why didn't he know whether he was or not? He'd have to ask Mycroft, or his parents...

He found SJP's website more helpful. Under the heading of "Approaching (re-approaching) Christian Faith" he agreed with that "It is tricky to say anything helpful about this without risking muddling things. Christianity - following Christ - is not 'a one size fits all'." _Obviously!_ ; "... _waiting_ has a stature and purpose. Be prepared to _not know_ and to wait, as patiently as your temperament allows." made him realize that, whereas he had patience to wait for the results of experiments he was running, in matters of faith his temperament preferred knowing to waiting patiently; "Weep (inwardly or outwardly) with the world’s (and your own) suffering. Bring both the humour and the lamentation in to your prayer - or rather, come to see them _as prayer_." made him wonder whether the tears he had just shed were a form of prayer as well.

He looked around the living room. Tissues he had used to wipe his tears and running nose with lay strewn about wherever he had dropped or thrown them. He blinked, as suddenly they appeared precious, as containing his communication with God, through tears instead of words. He got up to collect them, also retrieved one from the small garbage container in the bathroom, and piled them on the coffee table. Then he sat back on the couch and just looked at the pile of tissues for a little while before lying down with a happy smile.

***

He must have fallen asleep for a bit as he woke up hearing John's voice.

"Hey, Sherlock, I'm back," John called from where he was hanging up his coat. "Mycroft says 'hello', he's inviting us to target practice with him."

Normally Sherlock would jump on any mention of Mycroft, accuse him of meddling or find something else to complain about him. Since he had a new appreciation for Mycroft, his brother, now he didn't comment on this invitation at all. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

"Hello, John. How was the service?"

"Good! I'm really glad I went! Receiving communion was... good... - How are you?" John had come into the living room and noticed Sherlock's red eyes, a few bits of tissue still stuck to his lashes, and his red nose right away. Also there was an organized pile of crumpled tissues in the middle of the coffee table in front of him.

"I prayed," Sherlock responded pointing with both hands at the pile of tissues, as the explanation of how they got there.

"You cried?" John stepped closer, his caring concern audible. He sat down beside Sherlock on the couch, facing him.

"After you left I looked up about the Nicene Creed. But some of it didn't make sense, I was frustrated. And you'd said I could talk to God anytime. So I did talk to him, and afterwards... I started crying... for a while..." He looked at the pile of tissues thoughtfully. "But, you see, lamentation is prayer as well. Yes, I cried, but it turns out it was a form of prayer. So I went and collected all the tissues, to show you..."

John didn't know what to say to that, all he could do was take Sherlock into his arms. He felt touched that Sherlock wanted to show him the evidence that he'd prayed/cried.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Much better," Sherlock answered looking at John.

"You have some tissue bits on your lashes... May I?" John asked permission to pick them off.

Sherlock smiled at him and nodded, closing his eyes. John gently picked the little white specks off.

"There." Sherlock opened his eyes again. "I'm glad you prayed."

"Me too."

"How about some tea?"

Sherlock just nodded, he felt very relaxed. John squeezed his arm, then got up to make tea in the kitchen.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [St James's Church Piccadilly London](http://www.sjp.org.uk/) (link used with permission)


	14. Am I baptized?

Sherlock left the pile of tissues on the coffee table, retrieved the vase with the three differently colored roses from the mantle, and followed John into the kitchen. The kettle was already on, John sat at the kitchen table waiting for it to boil.

"You hungry?" he asked as Sherlock made his way to the sink, took the roses out, put new water in the vase.

"No, thanks." Sherlock recut the stems under running water, replaced them. After wiping the vase dry he held it right under John's nose inviting him to smell at least one of the flowers.  


John put his nose to the orange one, inhaled with his eyes closed. "Hm,... Yes, they still look pretty. Thanks, Sherlock," he looked up at his want-to-be-more-than friend, smiled.  


Sherlock put the vase back on the mantle, rearranged things a bit to make room for the pile of tissues, then carried them over. By the time he was done, John was sitting in his armchair, a small plate with a sandwich in front of him, and two steaming mugs on the coffee table.  


Sherlock sat on the couch. He had hoped John would have chosen to sit on the couch as well so he could feel physically closer to him. Sighing, he started to sip on his tea.  


"So, you're one of the 'baptised people' then," he started out of the blue, turning towards John.  


It took John half a second to make the connection that Sherlock was talking about the prerequisite for him having received communion at an Anglican church. "I am," he confirmed, taking another bite of his sandwich.  


"When did that happen?" Sherlock's face looked more like when he was investigating a case, which would explain why he didn't want anything to eat for lunch.  


John swallowed, shrugged his shoulders. "Not sure. I guess when I was wee little," he held his hands about 60 cm apart.  


Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, his mouth formed a silent 'What?!'. Obviously John was not able to provide a description of his own baptism from personal memories.  


Seeing Sherlock's disappointment, John grabbed his laptop, went to the churchofengland.org website. After several clicks he had found a page outlining the full order of a baptism service.

"So, in the Anglican Church, as long as there are parents or godparents who promise to reject the devil and all rebellion against God, renounce the deceit and corruption of evil, repent of their sins, turn to Christ as their Savior, submit to him as Lord and come to him, they do baptize babies and children. Also, Christians that are at the baptism service make several promises of supporting the baptized person. Chrism and water that has been prayed over is mentioned here, also the Apostles' Creed is recited..."

Another creed to investigate, probably similar to the Nicene Creed. Sherlock sighed. "Do you really believe that Jesus died and rose from the dead?"  


"I do," was all John said.  


" _Okay_. - I shall respect your faith." Sherlock looked serious, closed his eyes.  


"Okay, as well. What is this really about, Sherlock?" John was starting to get a little concerned.  


"Hm?" Sherlock opened his eyes again. "Hang on... What clothes do you prefer me in right now? These," he pointed at himself, the natural-fabric ones he'd been wearing since this morning, "or my normal clothes?"  


Suspecting that it was seeing Sherlock in natural-fabric clothes that did a number on him so that he wanted to touch them and his friend, and given that he should at least try not to lust after his so-far-still-only-best friend John answered, "For right now, your normal ones. We both know I like to see you in your new clothes very much. I think you proved whatever your theory was," he admitted. "I do appreciate you asking!"  


Sherlock nodded acknowledgement at John as he got up off the couch, then disappeared in the bathroom for a quick shower.  


John's phone rang, he answered, "Hello."

...

"Oh, Hi, Jamie! I'm glad you're calling. How's things?"

...

"Yes, I had a good time at the Zoo as well. Lucy was probably pretty tired after. Are you having a birthday party for her?"

...

"I see," he sighed, rubbed his free hand over his face. "Well, of course I had been wondering, 'cause... you know... I was hoping..."

...

"Of course. He's the father after all. Hopefully this time around things will work out for the three of you."

...

"Yeah,... If you want to meet up or chat, you can call."

...

"Yes, I understand. I do appreciate you telling me!"  


...  


"You, too. Bye, Jamie." He put the phone on the coffee table, leaned back in his chair, staring ahead, blinking. It took him a few seconds to notice that Sherlock sat on the couch already, wearing dark blue trousers and a cream colored shirt with a woven in herringbone pattern, the top three buttons open.  


"That was quick... Are you still wearing those pants you mentioned?"  


"I am. They are comfortable. I thought since I'm wearing something over them it would be okay to leave them on," Sherlock explained his reasoning.

John nodded, wished he hadn't asked. Obviously Sherlock's earlier simple description of them had stuck in his memory.  


"Do you think leek-green goes with those trousers?" As soon as he said it he realized it should be none of his business what color or fabric Sherlock's pants were.  


Sherlock chose to ignore the question and not to further expound on the merits of these particular pants. "So, Jamie?" he changed the subject instead.  


"Yeah," John sighed, "her Ex got in touch with her yesterday. Before we went to the Zoo. She didn't mention anything then because she didn't want to spoil it for me. - They're trying to work things out. Also for Lucy's sake. He is her biological father after all..." The disappointment about this development was audible in John's voice and visible on his face, whereas Sherlock had to restrain himself from voicing _Yes!!! Good for me!!_

"I'm sorry you feel sad that she's trying to get back together with Lucy's father," he said in an effort to show empathy. "I love you for who you are," he couldn't resist adding. He knew that John also felt attracted to Jamie because of her natural beauty and, since he was apparently heterosexual, her female body. There was nothing Sherlock wanted to change about his own body. He was a homosexual man, and that was that.  


"Thanks, Sherlock." John still felt disappointed. Telling himself that he'd only gone out with Jamie once for supper, and once to the Zoo, he sighed. Time to move on...  


"I see you moved your tissues," John pointed to the mantle.  


Sherlock nodded. "I want to keep them for a while. I don't know... something's changed since I prayed, and cried," he looked at John. "I also wondered whether I'm baptized."  


John shrugged his shoulders. If Sherlock had deleted information about the solar system, who knew what else he was capable of deleting. "Who could you ask?"

"My parents. Or Mycroft," Sherlock pursed his lips not liking the fact that he'd have to ask someone.

"Why do you want to know?"

"If it turns out that I am baptized I can take communion as well, right? Since you were so eager to go, I'm curious to experience it for myself, see what it's like."

"Yes. Technically that's the requirement in the Anglican Church. You might want to speak with a vicar, though, first if you have questions," John tried to advise. "I'm a doctor, not a theologian."

Sherlock wanted to try to get the answer while John was here to help him deal with whatever it was. If Mycroft didn't know he'd have to ask his parents anyway. He reached for his phone, dialed their number.  


John studied Sherlock's face, noting that he looked serious again. After several rings the call was answered.  


"Hi, Mom, it's Sherlock. How are you?"  


...  


"Yes, I know I don't call you often enough," he sighed. "I'm here with John. You've met him. We've had a few conversations about faith recently, and I've been wondering whether I'm baptized."  


...  


"Really?" Sherlock's eyebrows rose. "When did that happen?"  


...  


"Of course, when I was _wee little_...," he rolled his eyes while his mouth formed another silent 'What?!' He shook his head. "Are there any pictures of my baptism, or a certificate?"  


...  


"I see. Can you send me those, please? Who are my godparents then?"  


...  


"You and Dad, grandma Pauline, and grandpa Frederick," he repeated in answer to John's questioning look. He shook his head again. "How come I don't know any of this?"  


...  


"Redbeard..., you think?" he frowned.  


...  


"Another question: Is Mycroft baptized?"  


...  


"Does he know?"  


...  


Sherlock smiled at the answer. "You can send me his picture as well, I'll give it to him..."  


...  


"Right. Will do. You say Hi to Dad."  


...  


"You as well. Take care. Bye," with that he hung up, exhaled deeply.  


"So?" John asked.  


Sherlock looked straight at John, surprise still written on his face. "My parents say Hi to you. - Apparently I was baptized when I was wee little," he held his hands about 60 cm apart, then threw them up in the air, pursed his lips. He covered his eyes with one hand while his other hand clenched into a fist.  


John moved over to the couch to be closer to him.  


"That means we're brothers in Christ, Sherlock!" John smiled at him. "Want a hug?"  


Sherlock just nodded, lost for words. He felt happy and like crying at the same time, with a sense of wonder and a little anger mixed in. He just held on to John who embraced him tight, rubbing his back.  


That's how William Sherlock Scott Holmes found out that he was a Christian - by virtue of having been baptized as a wee little child.  


***


	15. Memories of Redbeard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** Please don't read if you are bothered by reading about illness and death of a pet friend.

Sherlock felt tears coming to his eyes, again. Happiness that he had something very profound, deep and truthful to share with John met with anger that he had had absolutely no say in the matter. No one had asked him as a wee little child whether he himself agreed to the questions his godparents had answered in the affirmative on his behalf. He was a Christian without having been able to give consent himself.

At the moment anger was in the forefront. Frustrated, he felt like hitting something. It was like finding out that one was adopted, that there were birth parents. In his case: his Father was God. That God. The One he didn't know yet. He sighed. He felt cheated, and that it was unfair that he only found out now that he was a Christian. _Would I have lived differently if I had known sooner? What happened?_

Instead of being happy news it was unsettling. He tried to calm himself down. John's stroking his back in a soothing manner helped.

"You said we're 'brothers in Christ'?" Sherlock asked in an effort to focus his attention on something else than his mixed feelings.

"Hmm," John sighed, content with embracing and comforting Sherlock, "Jesus lives in you, he also lives in me."

John couldn't see it, but Sherlock wrinkled his forehead. "I haven't noticed," _yet,_ he remarked dryly.

"Death here on Earth is not the end, we'll get new bodies one day, spend eternity with God. That's good!" John kissed his cheek.

To Sherlock this sounded fantastic, like science fiction. "Bodies rot at a predictable rate, I've studied it! So how can what you say be possible?" Sherlock wiped tears from his eyes, pulled away a bit to be able to look at John.

"Well, for one, with God _all things_ are possible. God is not like humans that often don't keep their word. When we can't see something yet that God has promised will happen, that does not mean those things are not going to happen. They will. Believing, or trusting, that it will happen is called faith."

Sherlock just looked puzzled. "You mean, like when I believe you when you say you're going to make me a cup of tea, and if you were interrupted you still remember to make it, and then bring it to me, even if I've annoyed you with an experiment in the meantime?"

"Sort of. Don't get me started on the many ways you can annoy me," John said fondly.

"If my parents and two of my grandparents are my godparents, I don't understand why I don't remember that faith was discussed when I was younger," Sherlock frowned.

"A bit odd," John agreed. "You mentioned Redbeard. Who is he?"

"When I was a child, my father's parents had an Irish Setter. We were friends."

"Oh," was all John said.

"They had an estate in the country. Whenever I visited them Redbeard was always happy to see me. Unlike some of my classmates later. We explored the countryside together... He died."

"I'm sorry to hear that." A dog that Sherlock knew as a child could not be expected to still be alive.

"My Mom said after Redbeard died I blamed God, for many months literally would stick my fingers in my ears any time anybody would mention God. - I don't remember that..." Sherlock bit on his lower lip.

"It sounds like you and Redbeard shared a special bond, and his death was traumatic for you."

"Hm," Sherlock had his hands steepled under his chin, "let me lie down for a few minutes. I should have some recollection of that time."

"Um, alright. I'll leave you to it then." John got up to make room for Sherlock to stretch out on the couch, and give him some privacy.

Sherlock took hold of John's hand before he could walk away. "Can you stay here? Please. I could put my feet in your lap?" Sherlock looked up at John.

"Are you worried about what you might remember?" John asked sitting back down at the end of the couch.

Sherlock nodded quietly while promptly claiming John's lap by planting his feet across his thighs.

"Right. I'm here. Is it okay if I put my hand on your foot?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes were closed already. The weight of John's arm resting on his legs and his hand holding his ankle felt reassuring.

~~~

In his memory palace Sherlock made his way to the part where he kept his childhood memories. He walked along the corridor until he reached the door with a sign that said "Redbeard" on it. To his surprise, right beside it was a door with a sign that said "God" on it, with a handwritten "Do Not Enter!" note tacked to it. He frowned since he didn't remember this room, nor having attached this note to it. He took the note down, folded it neatly, and put it in his pocket.

That a room for God existed in the childhood section of his memory palace proved that he must have heard of God and faith as a child, maybe even had had experiences with God himself. Curious, he opened the door carefully. The room was completely empty! He stepped inside, scrutinized the floor, walls, ceiling, back of the door. There were no marks, no traces, no clues. It was as if this room had not been stepped into before he did just now. Yet the note and the existence of the room indicated that it had been used. Conclusion: he had kept memories of things relating to God right here, but obviously very effectively deleted them.

Since he was here already he thought he may as well use this room now, make a new start, so put up some notes:  
Tears can be prayer.  
John says with God _all things_ are possible.  
John says we will get new bodies.  
Talk to God.  
Thank you, God, that John is my friend and loves me.  
Thank you, God, that I'm still alive.  
Thank you, God, for my parents, and Mycroft.

Now the room didn't look empty anymore. Maybe he should start reading the bible for himself, so there would be less "John said"-hearsay, and keep memories of to him special verses and passages here. Stepping outside into the corridor he pulled the door closed.

Taking a deep breath he opened the door to Redbeard's room and was immediately hit by a wave of sadness that once had been his. He knew Redbeard was dead, but didn't remember the circumstances quite yet. Here, Readbeard still lived in his memory and greeted him friendly now, wagging his tail happily, his fur soft, eyes bright...

Sherlock smiled as he petted him. The room contained many memories of their time together. There was a group photo, his mom holding him as a baby, Redbeard, as a puppy, looked up at them. This must have been a photograph he had seen at his grandparents'. Other memories as they both grew older: Sherlock crawling behind Redbeard chasing his tail, as a toddler using his dog-friend to balance himself, lying together on the large dog bed napping, showing an interest in dog food, investigating his dog-body, learning to brush him, playing fetch, family outings, and one of his favorite activities, when Sherlock was responsible enough, outings exploring the countryside by themselves in various seasons.

Judging from the amount of memories he must have regularly spent time at his grandparents'. Once Sherlock went to school and was ostracized by the other children for being quite a lot smarter than them, he always looked forward to spending time with Redbeard, because to him his superior intelligence did not matter, they were friends.

There were no visual memories of Redbeard dying. The last "picture" was of a wooden grave marker, "Redbeard" written on it, in front of a stone wall, which Sherlock recognized as belonging to the small chapel located not far from the main house on his grandparents' property. Only the grave marker and wall behind it were in focus, all around it was dark, black. Sherlock stared at it, then remembered what he so many years ago perceived had happened.

He, Mycroft and his parents were at the estate during late summer and had gone for a long walk with his grandparents in the forest. Redbeard was along, off-leash, sometimes running ahead of them, disappearing among the trees for short periods, but always coming back right away when called. Several hours later, after supper, Redbeard had thrown up, which dogs did do sometimes, he was told. Sherlock had petted him still, wished him to get better, then he and his father had looked at a fascinating book about insects still, which was their version of reading a bedtime story. His father kissed him goodnight, he slept well, looked forward to another adventure filled day.

No one woke him up when Redbeard got worse and grew lethargic. From snippets he overheard the next morning he gathered that he had eaten some poisonous mushroom, bits were found in his vomit. He had had seizures during the night and was going into liver failure. "How bad is it?" he'd asked his grandfather. "We've called the vet," was the answer. He thought the vet came to make his friend better. "Can I see him?" he asked.

His mother took him to where Redbeard lay on towels on his dog bed. His eyes were closed, sometimes he'd shiver, his tongue was sticking out a bit, breathing not quite normal... Sherlock could see that he was ill, petted him very tenderly and whispered "I love you. Don't give up!" in his ear, then made his way to the chapel to pray a simple prayer to God for his friend, as a child fully expecting that his prayer would be answered and Redbeard would get well.

He estimated he was gone not even fifteen minutes, but when he came back to the house the vet was just leaving. "What happened, why isn't the vet staying?" he asked naively. Everybody, including Mycroft, looked sad. "No...," he whispered shocked, his heart started racing, and he rushed to where Redbeard lay, looking like he was sleeping - dead.

"No...," he said again, covered his face with his hands, and cried. He didn't know who put their arms around him, trying to comfort him. But he refused to be comforted, kept crying, and blamed everybody, including himself, that they hadn't watched out better and prevented Redbeard from eating this poisonous mushroom. And then he blamed God that he let this happen, that his friend died, that he hadn't answered his prayer!

Redbeard was buried that same day by the chapel. Sherlock petted him one last time, tears streaming down his face, before he was laid in the ground. After that, back at home, he became withdrawn, didn't want to visit his grandparents anymore, and did stick his fingers into his ears whenever someone mentioned God, just as his mother had said. In his grief, disappointment and anger he had gone and "deleted" all memory of God, and didn't bother with him in any way, until he'd prayed in the hospital several years ago, and then recently when John had encouraged him to talk to God.

Sherlock sighed. Certainly John would start talking to him about forgiveness again if he heard the circumstances of Redbeard's death. And he was right. It was not God's fault that Sherlock's prayer back then had not been answered as he had expected it to be, and Redbeard had died. Neither was it anybody else's fault. He needed to be grateful that he had had such a special friend for many years growing up.

Sherlock smiled, knelt down, and gave Redbeard in his memory a big hug. "I'll see you again some time," he said, stepped out of the room, closed the door, then made his way back out of this section of his memory palace into the present. To be with John.

~~~

John patiently waited the few minutes while Sherlock was "gone" to remember. At one point his breathing accelerated, his feet stirred a little, he appeared restless for a bit, a few tears shimmered at the corners of his eyes, then he lay perfectly still again. Throughout this John kept his arm across Sherlock's legs, and held on to his ankle. He wondered whether he should have suggested to have Sherlock use his lap as a pillow for his head instead of his feet, then he'd be able to comfort him by stroking his hair and head, or squeezing his shoulder. But, Sherlock had suggested putting his feet in John's lap.

Hopefully Sherlock would find the answers he was looking for, then, hopefully, they could still enjoy the rest of the day. Maybe go for a walk in Regent's Park, or maybe Greg would call with a case after all, or they could just relax, Sherlock might play some violin while John listened or read a magazine...

Sherlock opened his eyes, observed John's profile. His eyes were closed, he looked lost in thought, was rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's ankle with his thumb. Sherlock wriggled his toes and lifted his heels a little to let John know that he was "back".

"Hey there," John said softly looking over at him. "So?"

"Thanks for staying, John. Do dogs get new bodies as well?"

"My pleasure! And..."

"Right, you're a doctor, not a theologian," Sherlock interpreted John's look before he could finish the sentence.

***


	16. New start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John offers to let Sherlock use one of his bibles. - "I appreciate that you want to let me use one until I get my own. I'll go purchase one tomorrow. Which one do _you_ prefer to use now for yourself?"

Sherlock sighed. It was comfortable lying on the couch like this, having his feet in John's lap. John appeared to be waiting for an explanation of how Sherlock not remembering having heard about God in his childhood and Redbeard were connected. He had left his memory palace hugging Redbeard, therefore did not really want to talk about his death, it still made him sad.

"You're probably wondering what happened," Sherlock remarked.

"I was," John answered. "It looks like some of the memories were painful?"

Sherlock just nodded. "Short version: Redbeard ate a poisonous mushroom during a family outing. He went into liver failure. The vet was called, who I thought would help him. I went to chapel, prayed for him. When I came back, just as the vet was leaving, he was dead. Naturally, I blamed God, myself, my family. Since then I didn't want anything to do with God, and I had indeed deleted my experiences with him and what I knew of him. That room was _empty_!

"I concede it is not God's fault that Redbeard died... I'm making a new start with God, may as well get to know him, again, I suppose... Do you have a bible? I don't have one. Yet. Or, maybe I used to have one way back but didn't take it along when I moved out? - Strange... I must have had experiences with God...," Sherlock mused.

"That's great that you're making a new start with God! I should have a bible in my room. Let me go get it," John moved Sherlock's feet off his lap to get up. It had been comfortable to sit with Sherlock like this on the couch.

***

Upstairs in his room, John looked around trying to remember where his bibles were. There was the one he had been given for his confirmation, the other he had received upon entering military service. During his time of active duty and until after having been wounded he had read in either one of them fairly regularly. Reading and thinking about "God's Word" had been a source of comfort and inspiration for him.

Certainly the time at the bedsit, when he became more and more depressed about the loss of his military career due to his injury, had been quite dark. Frequently contemplating suicide and occasionally staring at his gun had replaced reading in his bible. Since moving in and sharing life with Sherlock had given him new purpose he hadn't felt the need to read either. He should probably start reading himself again as well, not take the fact that he was still alive for granted.

John looked in the drawer of his night table, where he kept his gun, his dresser, under his bed, then remembered the box containing some military stuff on the top shelf in his closet. He checked, and yes, besides his medals and shoe shining kit, there were his bibles. He retrieved both, put the box back on the shelf. He placed a kiss on each one, thanked God, and made his way back downstairs to Sherlock.

"Look," he announced cheerfully as he got to the couch to show Sherlock his find. "Which one do you want?" he asked as he handed both to Sherlock.

Sherlock accepted both books, then sat up to take a close look. Both were well used, the one John had received from the military more so than the other one, he even noticed a few grains of sand among the pages, probably from Afghanistan still. Both had verses underlined, a few pages were bent at the corner for bookmarking. In both, Psalm 23 had _Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me._ underlined, indicating that this was highly personal. He had used both after his injury... Clearly, both bibles were special to John.

"I appreciate that you want to let me use one until I get my own. I'll go purchase one tomorrow. Which one do _you_ prefer to use now for yourself?"

John had not expected Sherlock to leave the choice up to him, observant as he was. His military career was over and done with. Seeing his military edition bible brought back memories from when he'd read when he had needed strength to do surgeries on wounded soldiers, needed comfort when comrades had died... he did not really want to be in touch with those feelings and memories now. On the other hand, to let Sherlock use it didn't feel right either because Sherlock would probably not be able to keep himself from deducing things about John's circumstances, thoughts, feelings about God, himself, life, from notes he'd scribbled in the margin, certain verses he'd underlined...

"You're right, I hadn't thought about that. Here, give me the military edition, please. You can use the other one. Thanks!" he said thoughtfully as he received the military edition from Sherlock. "I'll put this back upstairs. Be right back. - Would you like some tea?" John asked before heading for his room.

"I'll make it," Sherlock offered. He could see that John needed a minute to collect himself. "I'll bring our cups to the coffee table then. You can take your time!"

"Thanks, Sherlock."

John sat on his bed for a minute, clutching at his bible. Certain memories brought tears to his eyes. _I thought that was behind me..._ He wiped tears from his cheeks. Would he have survived if he had not met Sherlock? Would he have...? He tried to put the past back into the past, where it belonged, distance himself from the pain he obviously could still feel. Then he got up, went to his closet, put the bible back into the box.

***

Downstairs, Sherlock sat on the couch, laptop on his knees, two steaming mugs with tea on the coffee table. John took a seat, grabbed his mug.

"What are you looking at?"

"Oh, I was wondering whether there is a website where one can read the bible online. Indeed there is: bibleserver.com It's even searchable, handy if one only remembers part of a verse, there's different translations. I think I'll use this until tomorrow, so you can use your bible there," he nodded towards John's bible on the table.

"Why, thanks, Sherlock!" _He is amazing!_

"Cheers!" Sherlock took his mug and toasted John.

They spent the next 20 minutes reading quietly, Sherlock on his laptop, John revisiting some of his favorite passages, easily recognizable from his notes and markings.

After that they went for a walk. John realized this Sunday was a new start with God for both of them. He took Sherlock's hand.

"Can I give you a hug? _I_ need one..."

Sherlock hugged him quietly.

"I'm glad you're in my life," Sherlock said softly holding John tight, placing a kiss on his temple.

"I'm glad you're in my life, as well," John had tears in his eyes again.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [bibleserver.com](http://bibleserver.com)


	17. Happpyii!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinking his own tea, John observed Sherlock closely, scratched his head. It was slightly unusual for Sherlock to eat something unprompted in the middle of the afternoon, and to smile for so long. John wondered what the reason could be.

Monday shifts were not John's favorite. Since the clinic he worked at was closed Sundays, and only open a few hours on Saturdays, more patients tended to show up on Mondays. In the short break between patients John rubbed at his eyes, felt tired. Because patients' issues were quite varied - ranging from cold and flu, sprained ankles, hypochondria... to depression, drug or alcohol related injuries, occasionally domestic violence... - his time spent at the clinic should not be boring. Today in particular, though, he would have preferred to be called to help look at a crime scene, for instance.

The last few days had been emotionally intense. During his lunch break he thought of Sherlock, again, realized that it had only been this past Friday afternoon that Sherlock had asked him to be in a romantic relationship with him - not even 72 hours ago yet! It felt so much longer.

_Almost incredible! I didn't see that one coming. But then, it's Sherlock... I'm his chosen one!_

John shook his head. What was he going to do? In a way he wished he didn't still feel so heterosexual. He decided to text Sherlock.

 _What are you up to? JW_       He expected to hear 'I'm bored.' or 'Doing an experiment.'

_Just leaving a book store. Got two bibles! How is your day going? SH_

John had not given it much more thought when Sherlock had stated yesterday that he would purchase his own bible.

 _Two?! You'll have to show me! What else are you up to? JW_       John realized he felt bored.

_When are you done? SH_

_Around 2 PM. Can't wait... JW_

_To be with me? SH_

_Right. Shut up! JW_       John couldn't help smile at Sherlock's presumptuousness.

_I do look forward to seeing you. SH_

_Ta! Same. JW_ John sighed.

The rest of his shift went by quickly. He missed Sherlock.

***

Normally when Sherlock was without a case after a few days he'd get bored, sulk. Being in love and actively wanting to be in a romantic relationship with John, though, was definitely not boring. For once, actually he did not long for the distraction a case would bring. Also, his new start with God required his attention. He accepted the fact that he was a Christian. Like John.

His mind was busy thinking and questioning... his heart filled with various emotions... He was trying to identify what this particular joy he was experiencing felt like. Was it comparable to the moment when he'd solved a case, a particular difficult one, like a 10? Was it possible to feel happy and peaceful at the same time? He was sure of his love for John. _It was the right choice to tell him!_

There were a few things to do before John's return. Also, he'd have to remember to try not to overwhelm him.

***

On the ride home on the Tube John was absorbed in his own thoughts, marveled again that Sherlock wanted to be with him. Both their lives were changing. Sherlock was serious about him, and he was serious about wanting to know God. John found it hard to decide which of the two was more surprising. Knowing Sherlock, he honestly meant it. _Sherlock's a Christian! Didn't see that one either..._

It had been several days since the last case. John wondered when Sherlock would start to get bored. This afternoon, however, as John entered their apartment, the atmosphere was filled with positive excited anticipation.

"Hello," John greeted, hanging up his coat beside Sherlock's. Something had changed. There was a sense of happy realization, certainty, acceptance. And it smelled like baking.

"Hi, John, I'm in the kitchen."

John went to wash his hands, then joined Sherlock in the kitchen, just as he was pulling a tray out of the oven.

"Scones?" he admired Sherlock's handiwork.

"Mhm. Mrs. Hudson was so kind to give me her recipe and showed me how to prepare the dough. They should taste just like hers, baked in our oven," Sherlock smiled. "We can have some once they're cooled off. It took me a minute to find the potholders."

"Do we have milk?"

"Yes, indeed. I stopped by Tesco's, bought another carton." Sherlock kept smiling.

"And who are these for?" John asked. A crystal vase with a dozen beautiful dark red roses stood in the middle of their kitchen table.

"There's a note. Go read it." Sherlock prompted him.

John raised his eyebrows, approached the kitchen table. Part of him hoped it wouldn't say what he suspected it would say. A small card, displaying Sherlock's handwriting, was prominently tucked in among the leafy stems:

 _For John_  
        _with love_  
      _from Sherlock_

John swallowed. All that was missing was a hand drawn heart behind Sherlock's name, or a row of little hearts drawn all around the words in a heart shape... He swallowed, silently sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, speechless. It was not Valentine's Day!

"Too much?" Sherlock asked, still smiling. "I did tell myself to try not to overwhelm you..."

"Thank you, Sherlock," John said after a minute. "They are very beautiful, and I _am_ flattered." No woman he had been in a relationship with had ever thought of giving him a dozen red roses!

"You're welcome. Would you like tea or milk with your scone? Or just tea or milk, without a scone? Or only a scone?" Sherlock seemed to have trouble deducing John's beverage and/or food preference at the moment.

"Let me make some tea, please." John felt he had to be the one preparing it, to try to bring some normalcy to this situation. "I'll have a scone later." He got up, squeezed Sherlock's hand before filling the kettle. The cut off ends from the rose stems were still lying by the sink.

John noted that Sherlock's smile was genuine. In fact, he had not seen him this happy in a long time. Sherlock carried a plate with two scones to the coffee table where he sat down on the couch. When the tea was done John carried their mugs into the living room and joined Sherlock.

"You wanted to see my bibles. Look!" Sherlock picked up both, handed them to John. Both were leather-bound with gilded edges. The larger, heavier one was burgundy with a wider margin beside the text. The smaller one was brown, a pocket version with snap closure. They looked expensive.

Examining the two bibles, a piece of paper had fallen to the floor, John picked it up. It had the address of the book shop on the top, underneath read: 'Useful reminder: before reading in your bible it is advisable to pray something like: Father, when I read in your word now please send your Holy Spirit so I understand your word and make it a truth in my heart, in Jesus' name, Amen.'

"Since I can store what I read in my mind palace, I don't understand why I should pray such," Sherlock commented on seeing John read the note.

"Hmm," John mused. "They do have a point. They're right in that your mind palace is _not_ your heart! It does make sense."

"Really? Are you going to do that?"

"Well, it's just a short prayer, shouldn't be too difficult to incorporate."

"Hmm," Sherlock reached for the plate. He smiled happily at John, noticing his inquisitive look. "What? I _am_ hungry. I brought two, the other one is for you." It didn't take him long at all to finish eating, after which he sighed, content. He was still smiling.

Drinking his own tea, John observed Sherlock closely, scratched his head. It was slightly unusual for Sherlock to eat something unprompted in the middle of the afternoon, and to smile for so long. John wondered what the reason could be. He did not smile when he inquired about the first possible explanation he could think of.

"Uhm, Sherlock, did you take something?"

"Take what?" Sherlock asked innocently in return, with a smile. He got up, held out his hand for John to give him his empty mug. "Would you like more tea?"

"No, thanks," John replied as Sherlock walked to the kitchen. He came back carrying the vase with the roses, still smiling, placed it on the coffee table. It was an impressive bouquet, beautiful, fragrant...

"Did you take something, Sherlock?" John was growing more concerned.

"I still don't understand what you're referring to, John," Sherlock replied mildly.

"You look so happy and keep smiling... Did you take any drugs?" John felt he had to ask.

"Drugs? Oh, you thought... No, definitely no drugs! Drugs are boring!" was the firm reply, delivered with a happy smirk.

"A case?" was John's second guess. He looked expectantly at Sherlock.

"Case? No, definitely not a case! Cases are boring! In fact, I should inform you that I am officially on hiatus. I've texted Lestrade to not bother me with anything less than an eight. My cell phone is turned off. They could contact me by e-mail, I guess..." Now Sherlock's eyes were filled with tenderness when he smiled at John.

John's eyebrows had climbed higher with each revelation. He blinked. "Boring, really?" was all he managed to say to this unexpected development.

"Yes, really. I hope it's not going to be a problem for you? I do need to spend some time catching up on reading," Sherlock pointed at his bible, "and I want to listen to some music," he picked up several CDs from the coffee table, handed them to John.

John looked through them. "Christian rock, Christian contemporary music, hymns, Gregorian chants, Taizé? Sherlock?" John looked confused.

"No need to worry, John. The drum solo on one of the tracks on that Christian rock album _is_ inspiring... I can listen on headphones, if you prefer. I picked up two wireless sets," he pointed to two unopened packages sitting by their stereo. "One's for you, of course."

"Will you still play your violin?" John felt tears coming to his eyes. He needed reassurance that life with Sherlock as he knew it was not completely abandoned.

"Of course I will." Noticing John's serious look, Sherlock stopped smiling, frowned. "Too much?" He reached out, took John's hand.

John held on tight, swallowed. "It just took me by surprise, s'all." He wiped at his eyes with his other hand. "I'm happy for you that you're happy. It's understandable that you want to know God. You're doing it the best way you know how, which is to give it priority by going on hiatus... I am grateful to hear no drugs are involved!" John tried to smile. "And you got me flowers..."

"Yes, I did. - I love you, John." Sherlock declared, then smiled again. "I do. Regardless of what you'll decide. That's not going to change!"

John could hear the truth and resolve in Sherlock's voice. He pulled him into his arms.

"You need to know, John. Life is short... You need to know that I love you," Sherlock kept telling him. "I am happy. You need to know the truth: I love you."

John rubbed circles on Sherlock's back. He could not yet tell Sherlock that he also loved him like that. But he was grateful.

Sherlock did notice that John kept quiet. "You are still considering? I hope I haven't scared you off...," Sherlock pulled back to look at John's face. He was still smiling softly.

"Yes, I am," John replied with a sigh.

"Mind if I put my head into your lap?" Sherlock asked. "I feel tired."

John considered Sherlock's request. "You want to use my lap as a cushion for your head, that's all?" he asked for clarification since they had not shared the couch like that yet.

"Hmm," Sherlock smiled.

"Well, fine," John agreed. _What goes up usually comes down..._

Sherlock wasn't used to being this happy and feeling this much joy for this long. He felt slightly exhausted.

"Mhm, thanks John, I do appreciate it!" Sherlock proceeded to move over and then placed his head into John's lap. He looked up at John with a big genuine happy smile on his face. "I do love you!" Then he closed his eyes.

"I know... - May I touch your hair?" John asked.

"Mhmm, sure..." Sherlock sighed. He turned to lie on his side, facing John's belly. Soon he was fast asleep.

***


	18. Group hug in the foyer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "John, dear, it's Mrs. Hudson. Sorry to bother you at work. There's this loud music coming from upstairs, for a while already. ... Can you help, please?"

With Sherlock sleeping with his head in John's lap, John allowed himself to stroke his hair. It was soft, but strong, wavy. Since Sherlock was facing his belly, he felt a bit self-conscious. He thought of what Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade or Mycroft might say seeing them like this:

_Oh, look at you two! He baked for you and got you roses. It's so domestic and romantic! I'm so happy for you!_

_Way to go, John! You're taking good care of him. He sure needs a rest. Your lap's the perfect place. Sleep in peace... Can I have a scone from the kitchen?_

_John, I'm so pleased you have taken this next step. I've been waiting to hear from you. Did you forget? You do have my blessing, you know..._

They'd assume that they were together, like most everybody had for ages already. It annoyed John, somewhat, that his sexual orientation, heterosexual (still), as he saw himself, seemed not to be respected, except by Sherlock. He had stated often enough that he was 'not gay'. _Why does Sherlock want a romantic relationship with me? He loves me. Like that..._ John rolled his eyes.

He had not considered having a romantic relationship without sex before. What would that look like? Probably not that much different than how they lived now. Except romantic feelings would be openly acknowledged and cherished. Which Sherlock had done already. He still wasn't all clear about his own feelings. What kind of sexual acts would he be willing to do with Sherlock? He winced, told himself again _I'm NOT homophobic!! I'm not... I just can't see myself having anal intercourse with a man, or letting that be done with me! Not at this time, not with Sherlock... Help!_

He kept looking at Sherlock's face, his nose, lips, eyes, eyebrows, eyelashes, cheekbones, the steady pulse on his strong neck, the mole on it, his ear. It was one thing to have seen this precious human sleep on the couch at times, another to have him lie in your lap, feel his steady breathing... It was peaceful, and he did not want to be anywhere else in the whole world at this time, he realized.

Leaning forward over Sherlock, he reached for his own bible that was still lying on the coffee table. He remembered the recommendation to pray briefly before reading, paused to do that, then read for a while until he felt tired. He put his bible back down and tried to get comfortable, then dozed off for a little while.

***

Sherlock had seen him off the next morning, wishing him a good day. Shortly before his lunch break, during a break between patients, he received a call from Mrs. Hudson.

"John, dear, it's Mrs. Hudson. Sorry to bother you at work. There's this loud music coming from upstairs, for a while already. Some sounds like drumming, and sometimes it sounds like Sherlock is jumping. I knocked on the door, but it's locked, and he wouldn't open. I tried calling his phone, but he didn't answer. Can you help, please?"

John sighed. "Sure, Mrs. Hudson. I think he turned his phone off," he remembered. "I'll quickly stop by during my lunch break, check on him, make sure he either turns the volume down or wears headphones. Sorry for your inconvenience. Won't be long. Thanks for calling!"

"Thank you, dear," their landlady sounded relieved.

\---

On his way home John wondered why Sherlock wasn't using headphones, he had seen the boxes. If he wasn't using headphones why wasn't he answering the door? Was it that loud? At least he was alive, Mrs. Hudson heard jumping. He shook his head...

Indeed, the sound of music was audible outside their Baker Street apartment, though not as loud as in the foyer as soon as he opened the front door. John pursed his lips, resolutely climbed up the stairs. This was going too far! His key opened the door... he saw Sherlock sitting on the couch wearing headphones, music blaring.

"Oh, hi, John," Sherlock greeted him smiling, taking the headphones off. He looked puzzled when he noticed that the music was still audible, which it shouldn't.

"Oh," he commented as John made his way over to the stereo and pushed the transmitter all the way in, after which the music was only audible from the headphones. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes," John heaved a sigh, "called me at work. Because you didn't open the door or answer your phone!" John closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands. "Were you jumping earlier?" he did not look happy.

"I... was. - Not good?" Sherlock blinked.

"It's... fine, just take her into consideration. Either set the volume at a reasonable level, or make sure the transmitter is pushed in all the way! - How long do you plan to not take cases?" John asked, wishing Sherlock's hiatus was over already.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I do enjoy having some time off, just to read and listen to music! Do you want to take some time off as well?"

"I don't think I can take official vacation at this time," of course taking time off for cases was different. "Right now I have to get back to work."

John noticed Sherlock was wearing his dark green hemp lounge pants and dark teal t-shirt, which had the predictable effect that he wanted to touch the fabrics and Sherlock in them...

"I thought you weren't going to wear your new clothes for a while...," John inquired.

"I didn't expect you home. I can wear what I want when you're not around. Problem?" Sherlock explained.

"No problem. I just...," John swallowed. Why don't you come downstairs with me, apologize to Mrs. Hudson."

"Alright." Sherlock got up, followed John downstairs. He knocked on their landlady's door.

"Hello, Sherlock," he was greeted. She tried to keep her face neutral, but her slightly pursed lips gave her previous annoyance away.

"Please accept my apology, Mrs. Hudson. I failed to plug in the transmitter for the wireless headphones properly, which I understand caused some noise. I'll pay more attention in the future," Sherlock said as politely as he could. "I'll leave the door unlocked, for now, in case you need assistance with something."

"Oh, you...," feeling touched by his genuine sounding apology, Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a quick hug. "Thank you, John, for helping sort this out."

"Well, I'm off," John said, nodding, but didn't turn right away to head out the door.

"Would you like a hug as well?" Mrs. Hudson asked while Sherlock turned to look at John.

"Fine," he wouldn't refuse a hug from their old landlady.

She stepped out of her apartment, one arm still around Sherlock, put the other around him, so that Sherlock and John were hugging as well, which John had not expected. He could feel Sherlock's smile on his forehead. _Fantastic!_ But then he let himself relax into it, took a deep breath. It was good to feel Sherlock's body close beside him, smell him. And it was especially nice to know that he was smiling about him.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I do have to go. Sherlock...," he squeezed Sherlock against himself firmly, pressed his head into the crook of his neck, "I'll see you later."

Sherlock's smile stopped, reluctantly he let John go. "Have a good afternoon, John."

"Come in for a cup of tea, Sherlock, we'll have a chat?" Mrs. Hudson invited Sherlock.

"I guess I have a few minutes," John heard Sherlock say as he pulled the front door closed behind himself.

\---

On the way back to work John thought again about his reaction to seeing Sherlock in his natural clothes. That he wanted to touch him wearing them. Touch him sexually... which Sherlock would not allow unless they were in a committed romantic relationship. John did not like himself for reacting this way to Sherlock, to these clothes. It was frustrating to have to admit to himself that he did want to touch Sherlock like that. But was it just the clothes, or Sherlock himself? Would he want to touch Sherlock without clothes, if he was naked?

John nearly missed his stop. _Way to go!_ Shaking his head about himself, he made his way back to the clinic. He doubted very much that Sherlock would let him see him naked to see how he'd react. Maybe if he presented the idea as an experiment he'd agree. The truth was, he really did not know how he would react.

"Hello, Janice," he greeted the receptionist. "You can send me the next patient in a minute," he said hanging up his coat in the staff closet. He needed to focus on his patients for the next few hours. - Somehow he'd figure out what the right thing to do was!

***


	19. Seeing You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel bad," John repeated.  
> "Then we should get this over with so that hopefully you will feel better again. Do you agree?"  
> John gave this some thought, then nodded.

John still hadn't made much progress with making a decision whether or not to begin a romantic relationship with Sherlock. Occasionally he wished he really was bisexual, that he would not be so hung up on the fact that so far he had only been with women.

If he was honest with himself, he still could not see himself having sex with Sherlock. Which, Sherlock had assured him several times, was fine, he was willing to have a relationship without sex, if that was what John wanted. Could he see himself having a romantic relationship with Sherlock without sex? What did he want?

On the way home from work that afternoon John thought about how to get Sherlock to help him try to figure out whether he would want to sexually touch him if he was naked, without his natural clothes.

 _You're skating on thin ice here, Watson!_ he told himself. _You are his friend! I don't know whether I want to be intimate with him!..._ his internal dialogue went back and forth. This should be clear, he should know what he wanted! Self-pity would not help him figure this out, nor self-doubt. Talking honestly about it with Sherlock might help? Climbing the stairs to their apartment John heard soft music, and smelled cooking. After letting himself in he quietly hung up his coat, proceeded to the bathroom to wash his hands.

Humming along with the music and being absorbed in whatever he was doing in the kitchen, Sherlock did not notice John's return.

"Hi, Sherlock," John greeted from the kitchen doorway, moving to the fridge to pour himself some water, "that smells good. What is it?" He noticed that Sherlock was wearing his usual lounge clothes now.

"Potato and leek soup, with ham from a humanely raised pig." Sherlock's eyes brightened and he smiled seeing John. "Mrs. Hudson gave me the recipe. It's easy. It took me a while to find the potato peeler. It can simmer by itself, requires only occasional stirring, we'll have leftovers."

John looked impressed. He didn't mind Sherlock cooking, trusted he'd be better able to follow instructions preparing a dish or soup than preparing tea. "Great! And the music?" he gestured to the living room.

"That's from Taizé. Do you like it?" Sherlock asked stirring the soup in the pot.

John raised his eyebrows, sighed. "Not bad. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson doesn't mind the absence of drumming and jumping sounds. I'm beginning to miss hearing you play your violin, though..."

"I can play some later for you, if you want."

"Sure I want. Speaking of which, I feel I need to figure something out to be able to answer your request," John felt uncomfortable, chose to sit in his armchair to put some distance between Sherlock and himself. He cleared his throat, "Is it alright if I speak with you about it?" he said looking at Sherlock in the kitchen.

"Of course," Sherlock said, turning the heat down to simmer and replacing the lid. "What is it?" Seeing John in his armchair, he sat on the side of the sofa closest to John. "Would you like to lie down and put your head in my lap? I can massage your scalp while you tell me," he suggested.

"No," John replied looking at the coffee table.

"Or lie the other way and put your feet in my lap, I can massage your feet?" Sherlock kept trying to establish physical contact with John and help him relax after work.

"Thanks for offering," John sighed. "Look, I'm trying to figure out whether I find you sexually attractive at all. I know you offered 'a relationship without sex', if I'd want that. And I know I should be able to know whether I'm attracted to you that way," he threw up his hands in exasperation.

"John, it's alright..." Sherlock said calmly.

"No, it's not quite!" John was getting a little louder. "How can you even offer something like that?! We both know I like these natural clothes on you very much. - It's embarrassing! - And I do know I'm attracted to _you_ in them," he paused. He knew because he had tried to picture Lestrade in such clothes, which definitely did not stir a whisker!

"But whenever I've been sexually attracted to or in love with a woman in the past, we both were naked for... making love. My female partners were not wearing natural clothes! What I'm trying to say is: I don't know whether my attraction to you is only when you wear such clothes." John felt exhausted. "This is ridiculous," he said in exasperation. "I don't want a relationship where I'd require my partner to wear certain clothes to be interested in _that_ with them," he huffed, sagging back in his chair and burying his face in his hands.

Sherlock didn't know what to say, kept quiet. John didn't want physical contact right now, yet he obviously needed reassurance. Sherlock kept his eyes on the coffee table.

After a short while John lowered his hands, dared look at Sherlock, who tried to keep his composure on the couch. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" His voice sounded almost pleading.

"I hear you say that when you are sexually attracted to or in love with... someone you do like to make love with them naked. Got it. Naked meaning no clothes. - You want to see me naked," Sherlock caught on, "in the hope of clarifying for yourself whether you find me attractive that way?" he looked at John with a serious face, raising his eyebrows.

John nodded. Making eye contact with Sherlock, he swallowed. His face looked pained. "I know you said you won't let me touch you unless we're 'together'. Of course I respect that. - I think anal intercourse either way would definitely be off the table for now. But of course I'd like to do other things to share intimacy _IF_ I felt like that for you. And that's the thing that I don't know: whether I do," he had to admit. He wanted to shorten his own misery, make a decision as soon as possible. Yet he felt helpless. Sherlock seemed to be at peace with the status quo, he noted.

"Do you honestly think seeing me naked is going to help you find out whether you love me like that?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

John shrugged his shoulders. "As you know, so far I've been heterosexual. Do you have any other suggestions?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not transgender, John. I am not going to have gender reassignment surgery to make my body look female. I cannot do that because I do identify _male_. I am _homosexual_. I cannot change that, nor do I want to."

John buried his face in his hands again. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he mumbled.

"It's alright," Sherlock sighed. "You want to see my body. Naked. That's fair. See whether you like what you'd be getting. - No sexual touching," he cautioned. "When and where?" With every word his voice sounded more detached, cold, mechanical.

John froze. "I feel bad to ask this of you. I really don't know what to do."

Sherlock could hear that he was miserable about the situation, unhappy with his own indecisiveness. He hoped that this would give John the clarification he desired. "Here is fine? Or do you want to wait until later?"

"I feel bad," John repeated.

"Then we should get this over with so that hopefully you will feel better again. Do you agree?"

John gave this some thought, then nodded.

Sherlock went to the stereo, turned the music off. The apartment fell quiet. "Be right back," he said going to the kitchen where he stirred the soup, turned the heat to low. When he came back into the living room he went around behind John's armchair to stand in front of the coffee table, about one metre from John.

John was staring at the floor until he noticed Sherlock's bare feet. Following his legs up he realized they were bare, looking up further there were no pants. Sherlock's penis was half hard. _Beautiful..._ is all that came to John's mind. His gaze lingered on Sherlock's pubic hair and balls, moved back to his penis, before taking in his abdomen, chest, shoulders...

"You're beautiful," John whispered, shocked as he could feel his penis stir at the sight of Sherlock naked before him.

Sherlock turned around slowly to let John see his back, arse, legs.

"Extraordinarily beautiful..." John said reverently, looking at Sherlock's groin again as he completed the turn.

Sherlock smiled, relieved. "Thank you, John." He held out his hand to John. "Would you like to hold me in your arms?" he asked.

John blinked, shocked. "What?"

"You can hold me in you arms," Sherlock offered again, holding out his hand.

John looked at Sherlock's extended arm and hand, beautiful as well, sighed. He did take Sherlock's hand, got up. Closing the distance between them, he let go of Sherlock's hand, put both arms around him, pressing their bodies together and his head on Sherlock's chest. _No sexual touching._

They stood like this for a few minutes, just holding each other. Neither let their hands stroke or explore, not even the other's back. Sherlock seemed to have control over his thoughts as he was not getting harder with John being so close. John's mind had gone mostly blank, he felt dazed, speechless.

"Did you see enough, or would you like to look again?" Sherlock asked eventually. By now he was tenderly stroking John's hair on his head.

"May I see you again some other time?" John asked. He felt emotionally exhausted, despite having seen Sherlock naked still not able to make a decision.

Sherlock pulled back a little to be able to look at John's face. "Yes," was his simple reply.

 _Because it's not sexual touching?_ John wondered.

"I'll get dressed then." Sherlock kissed John on the forehead, made his way into the kitchen, where he put on his clothes, which were lying on one of the kitchen chairs.

John had sat back down in his armchair, watched him dress.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John remembered to say finally.

"You're welcome. - Did this help?" Sherlock asked stirring the soup again.

"Yes."

John still needed to decide.

***


	20. A justifiable technicality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He told himself he'd have to search his heart a little more to find out whether he loved Sherlock like that, to have a romantic relationship.

"Excuse me, I'll be upstairs for a few minutes," Sherlock heard John say from the living room.

"Thank you for still considering," he said sticking his head out the kitchen door as John was already on the stairs. There was no reply. John had said twice that he felt bad about asking to see Sherlock naked. He probably still did. Since the soup didn't need to be stirred again for a while he sat on the couch. Staring ahead of him, he placed the soles of his feet on the edge of the coffee table.

He tried to put himself into John's shoes: How would he have reacted if he had a female best friend/flatmate/partner in solving crimes that had declared her love for him, even if she offered a relationship without sex, if he wanted that? Shaking his head he knew he would not want a romantic relationship with her. He could not picture himself having a romantic relationship with a woman, with or without sex did not matter.

Even he knew that loving someone as your best friend did not mean you also loved them the way to want to be intimate with them. And even if you loved someone wanting to be intimate with them did not mean you also loved them the way to want to spend the rest of your life with them.

He loved John, could not see himself with anyone else as his life-partner. He wanted to tell him every day that he loves him, cherish him, show him how precious he is, share life and grow old together. _I love John._ He sighed.

At first, when he figured out that John wanted to see him naked, he had felt appraised, like a piece of jewelry someone considers buying, or when someone looks inside a car at a car dealership, trying to picture whether they can see themselves driving in it. He narrowed his eyes, sure John would not have asked if he hadn't thought it might help him make his decision. Finding him 'Extraordinarily beautiful...', would that be enough for John to want to have a romantic relationship with him? With a man? Realistically, what were the chances? Did it even matter, as long as they remained best friends? He knew he would be able to accept it and carry on if John said 'No.', even though he would be very very sad, for sure.

At least John had made it clear that he would want to share intimacy with his life-partner. If he chose Sherlock, they'd be naked, he would not have to wear natural clothes... he let himself dream, smiling, until he realized that he was getting hard. Sighing, he got up, took out his violin from its case. Yes, it had been a while since he had played it. He thought for a few seconds, then decided to play something soothing and reassuring for John.

***

Upstairs in his bedroom, with the door firmly closed, John lay down on his bed on his back, threw his left forearm over his eyes. _Shit!!! It's not just him in those natural clothes. I_ am _sexually attracted to Sherlock!_ He squirmed, scowling.

Rather than finding it a relief to have at least this question answered, he found it unsettling. Because knowing that he did find Sherlock sexually attractive did not answer the question whether he wanted to have a romantic relationship with him, be his life-partner. From the few times Sherlock had touched him 'platonically' it was clear that Sherlock loved him. He touched him in a way no woman ever had, and he knew it. He even played his violin, like now, just for him specifically.

He tried to imagine the implications regarding sex. Yes, he wanted to be intimate with his life-partner, woman, or man, he had to admit to himself now. Remembering how Sherlock's hard penis had felt through those hemp lounge pants, he swallowed. Once he agreed to be his partner they would have a monogamous committed relationship. Down the road, would they decide to get married? He pictured their names on their marriage certificate, Sherlock beside him on their wedding day, beaming with happiness...

At the very latest once he touched Sherlock's naked skin in any sexual way - which Sherlock would only allow once they were together - he would have to adjust how he viewed his sexual orientation from heterosexual(still) to heterosexual/homosexual-with-Sherlock-only. Maybe with time he would view himself as formerly-heterosexual-now-homosexual-with-Sherlock-only. He had heard that it was possible that one's sexual orientation could change. He had never thought this might happen to him...

He felt like whining, frustrated brought his right forearm up as well to cover his face. Why did it feel almost like a loss if he came to consider himself formerly-heterosexual? If he committed to Sherlock, would he really not be sexually attracted to women anymore at all, ever? He probably was expecting too much of himself right now, felt like whining, again.

Longingly he thought of the beautiful female physical attributes of girlfriends and lovers past, which represented familiar sexual territory. Softer muscle tone, soft lips, soft breasts, female areolae, nipples, hips, vulva, clitoris, labia, vagina... to touch and put his penis in. - His laptop was by his armchair, he'd have to go bring it upstairs to look at heterosexual porn on the internet. He did not have any magazines of that nature lying around.

He told himself he'd have to search his heart a little more to find out whether he loved Sherlock like that, to have a romantic relationship. Maybe having real vaginal intercourse with a real woman, not masturbating thinking about imaginary sex with a woman, could give him a clue? Maybe all of a sudden in the middle of his penis penetrating a vagina he'd think of Sherlock and wish they would sexually touch each other?

His thinking of having vaginal intercourse with a woman had made him horny. His penis told his brain that this would be a good idea, to do it one last time, before voluntarily giving up having sex with women, before, probably, he would say 'yes' to Sherlock. This would not be cheating, because he had not agreed to be his life-partner - yet. A justifiable technicality, he felt.

Having decided to maybe-possibly-probably fuck with a woman one last time, he sat up on his bed, opened the drawer on his night stand to look for condoms. There was the small box! He retrieved two, put them in his trouser pocket, also grabbed a small tube of lube, which he put in his other trouser pocket. Hoping he would find a woman that was willing to have casual sex with him, he made his way downstairs.

Looking out unto Baker Street, Sherlock was still playing his violin. John went straight to where his coat hang, deposited the condoms and lube in one of the pockets, then sat down on the couch, to give Sherlock opportunity to sit beside him. When the piece was finished he said, "That was lovely. Thank you, Sherlock! - How's the soup coming along?"

"Soup's done," Sherlock said, wiping his violin down and putting it away. "Are you feeling better?" He turned around to look at John.

"I do," John nodded. "Did some thinking. Need to think some more. Should be able to reach a decision soon, possibly this evening yet...," he turned his head to look at his coat.

"That's... good, I guess," Sherlock ventured having observed where John was looking. "Would you like some soup before you go out?"

John tried not to obviously snap his head back. "Who said I was going out? How...," there was no point denying it, "I'll have a small portion, thank you."

"It's fine, John," Sherlock sighed, making his way to the kitchen.

John got up to join him, he could carry his own portion and glass of water.

Sherlock turned the element off, put two bowls out, quietly filled them, then handed one of them and a spoon to John. Quietly they made their way to the couch, where they quietly ate their soup.

"This is really good," John finally broke the silence. He put his bowl down on the coffee table, rubbed his palms on his jeans. "I'll have a quick shower then," he said getting up.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't need to look in John's coat pocket to know what was in it. He carried their empty bowls and glasses to the kitchen sink, then listened to the sound of the shower, the toilet getting flushed, running water, brushing teeth... John emerged, trying to keep himself from smiling widely.

"When will you be back?" Sherlock asked.

John was already putting on his coat. Sherlock rose to see him off. John shrugged his shoulders.

"Not too late, I promise. Just need some time to think." He left out what the real purpose of this outing was: to get laid with a woman. Knowing that probably right now he was completely transparent to Sherlock, he pursed his lips. Unable to look him in the eye, he looked at the floor. "Well, I'm off then," he said beginning to turn.

Sherlock gently touched his shoulder. "May I give you a hug?"

"You may," John turned back, they embraced only slightly longer than strictly necessary.

"Be careful," Sherlock asked.

"Will do," John answered, placing a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and letting himself out.

Sherlock closed the door after him listening to the anticipation in the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. After just a couple of seconds he quickly put on his shoes, scarf and coat, grabbed his wallet, then hurried down the stairs and out unto Baker Street where he still caught a glimpse of John just as he was getting into a taxi.

He raised his arm to hail one for himself... While he was, for the time being, officially not taking any cases unless they were an eight, when it came to John Watson, he was not on hiatus.

***


	21. Black Tulip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John put his phone back into his coat pocket. On the right, a short distance ahead, a brightly lit white sign above the entrance to a bar was coming into view, cursive black letters spelled out the name of the establishment, followed by the solid black picture of a tulip.

The taxi driver's "Where to?" when they were already driving, made John realize he didn't even know where exactly he planned to find such a woman.

"A bar, I guess... need to sort something out...," he answered vaguely. He noticed the taxi driver briefly mustering him in the rear view mirror, as if he was trying to deduce his fare's frame of mind, which reminded him of Sherlock.

"Are you looking for 'company' to help you 'think'?" John's eyes widened, which the taxi driver, a tall, skinny Caucasian in his early twenties, took as confirmation. "Would you like me to suggest a place?"

John looked out the window, slightly embarrassed shrugged his shoulders. "Alright."

"I'll pull over for a minute, won't charge you for that," the taxi driver said looking for a suitable spot. When they were stopped, he paused the fare meter. "I don't mean to presume...," he said gently, in an understanding tone of voice, "tonight, are you looking for a woman, or a man, or it does not matter?" The question implied that John's answer would have a bearing on what he would suggest.

John was pleasantly surprised by the candor. _Finally a person that does not assume...!_ "Thank you for not presuming,...Will," he said after having found the driver's first name on his driver ID, stuck on the dashboard. "For a few hours this evening, a woman." He sighed.

"Are you looking for a relationship?" the questioning continued.

John shook his head. _No!_ "That's not what I'm looking for." If he was going to have a relationship with someone, it would, at this time, most likely be with Sherlock.

Will nodded. "How about the Black Tulip?"

Not having heard of this place before, John frowned. "Black" sounded a bit ominous. "Can you tell me more about it? Why is it called 'Black'?"

Will kept his back to John, they made eye contact through the rear view mirror. "It's about 15 minutes northeast from here. Relatively small, classy, has a bar, live music most evenings, good food if you want something to eat...

"It's called black - not white for innocence, not red for love, not yellow for friendship, not blue or green for hope, or rainbow for LGBTIQ people, who are welcome, of course - because _anybody_ that is _not_ looking for a relationship can go there. Simply to have company and meet other people that also are _not_ looking for a relationship, or... pick up someone to have casual sex with, no strings attached," he explained, looking a little sad relating the last part.

John swallowed. This place sounded perfectly suited for his purpose. "How do you know this?" he asked, his penis stirring at the mention of sex.

"As a taxi driver, one hears and sees things... Usually I drop off one person, usually I pick up two, occasionally more...," was Will's honest, nonjudgmental reply.

"Is it safe?" John remembered Sherlock's request.

"As far as I know, yes."

"Hmm, I'll give it a try. Thanks for the suggestion and explanation!"

Will signaled, then pulled back into traffic, pressed the fare meter on. He remained quiet, concentrating on driving.

"Have you been there yourself?" John asked, curious.

"No. I'm looking for a relationship." Will chose not to elaborate further.

John's phone pinged in his coat pocket, alerting him to a text message. He retrieved it to read.

_John, I have turned my phone back on, while you are out. In case you want to call or text me. SH_

John smiled, his heart warmed by Sherlock's willingness to keep their line of communication open at this time.

_Thank you, Sherlock, I appreciate it! See you later. JW_

John put his phone back into his coat pocket. On the right, a short distance ahead, a brightly lit white sign above the entrance to a bar was coming into view, cursive black letters spelled out the name of the establishment, followed by the solid black picture of a tulip.

"Here you go," Will said pulling over to let his passenger off. "I may not be the one picking you up. I hope you find your answer." He sounded sincere.

"Thanks, me too." After paying, John closed the door of the taxi, watched it drive off.

Slowly, he turned on the curb, eyed the door of the bar. The top half contained some clear glass, allowing a view inside. On the left was a small rainbow-colors-striped sticker, 'Everyone Welcome!' stenciled in small letters beside it. John's eyebrows rose, he took a deep breath, then opened the door, stepped over the threshold.

***

"Follow that taxi there," Sherlock instructed firmly, he wasn't even seated yet," but keep a discreet distance!"

As soon as he had closed the door, the taxi lurched ahead, trying to keep up with John's. It was beginning to get dark. Sherlock could still make out the back of John's head. After a short while he looked out the window, his taxi pulled over. Since there was no place for Sherlock's taxi to pull over as well, they had to pass John's first before finding a suitable spot to wait. Sherlock had ducked down in the back seat so John would not see him.

In the past, John usually let Sherlock know when he was going out with a woman or girlfriend. Sherlock had actively tried to disrupt such occasions. With Jamie he had only wanted to see what she looked like. But tonight, John had not said a word about going out with a woman, or that he had met somebody. Which meant that he was trying to meet somebody to... Sherlock narrowed his eyes, swallowed.

"They're moving again," his taxi driver said after a couple of minutes. "Still want me to follow?"

"Yes. Don't get noticed."

Sherlock noticed that he was clenching his hands into fists. He blinked. _What is he thinking?_ He decided to text John. Reading John's reply he bit his lip.

"Sir, they're going to stop by that bar there, I think. Do you want me to stop, or drive past them?"

"Stop. I'll get out once he is inside."

Once John had entered the bar Sherlock paid his fare, tipping the driver, then waited in an alley across to keep an eye on it. An internet search for 'Black Tulip bar London', to his surprise, brought no results.

***

Like the sign above the entrance, the interior of the bar was held in a black and white theme, sparsely decorated, yet modern with its clean lines and angular furniture. A row of booths lined the left side, the bar, with stools in front, was on the right, a small stage, set up for entertainment later, was at the back.

At half past six, there were only a handful of patrons. Two 'couples' sat in two separate booths, one was a man and a woman, the other two men, sipping their drinks, carrying on conversations. John had to remind himself that in all likelihood they were not actually couples. Making his way to the bar, they didn't pay him any attention.

He sat down on the stool closest to the door. That way it'd be easier to leave if he changed his mind. On either side of the counter were baskets, filled with condoms and small single-use packets of lube, and clearly marked containers for the safe disposal of 'biohazards'. Prominently displayed on the wall behind the counter was a 30 x 50 cm white sign, small black tulips stenciled all around the edge:

 _MUST BE LEGAL AGE_  
_NO SOLICITING_  
_RESPECT OTHERS_  
_violators will be banned_  
_from the premises!_

Just then, the bartender, a young, well-groomed, slim Asian man, returned. "Hello, I'm Tim," he introduced himself in a high tone of voice. "Welcome to the Black Tulip! I'll point out our three rules here," he gestured to the wall behind himself. "I trust you can read, are a responsible adult, and will behave accordingly."

John nodded to indicate his acknowledgement of 'the rules', he certainly had not expected such a stern welcome message.

"Would you like to order a drink?" Tim inquired in a friendlier tone now.

"Do you have non-alcoholic choices?" John felt he should stay sober.

"Yes, we offer plain or carbonized mineral water, various juices, milk, coffee, tea, hot chocolate."

"I'll have a glass of orange juice. How much?" John asked, retrieving his wallet.

"Three pounds," Tim informed him. After taking John's payment he disappeared in the kitchen, used some kitchen machine, which could be heard in the bar.

A few minutes later he put down John's order in front of him on a coaster, "Here, it's fresh pressed."

"Thanks." John took a sip of the juice, it was good. He nodded approvingly, kept quiet.

After a couple of minutes he addressed Tim, "Who owns this place? I didn't even know it existed..."

"We don't advertise. No need. Word of mouth reaches who needs to find us. - I don't actually know who owns the Black Tulip. All the bills and wages are paid on time. My guess is it's a celebrity who cares to provide a safe place for all people that, for whatever reason, are not looking for a relationship. I don't think whoever it is does it for the money. I've wondered at times... it's almost like a non-profit or charity... no clue," Tim shrugged.

The "NO SOLICITING" rule made it very clear that female, male and transgender prostitutes were welcome to come here, just like anybody else. No one was allowed to offer them money or drugs for 'services', they strictly would come here for themselves. The biohazards containers showed that drug addicts were welcome. Providing free condoms and lube would hopefully encourage people to practice safe sex. John felt impressed.

Various questions ran through his mind. He gave himself 45 minutes. If, by then, he didn't meet a woman that wanted to have sex with him, he'd text Sherlock that he was on his way back. Having decided that, he heard the bar door open and close. High-heeled shoes tapped on the stone floor. Holding his breath, John stared at his hands holding his glass.

The stool beside him was pulled back from the counter, whoever had just come in sat down, spreading a flowery-powdery scent around them. The person cleared their throat.

"Your first time here?" a female-sounding voice asked.

John turned to look at who was addressing him: a very voluptuous woman, still tanned from the summer, with long black hair, full lips, wearing make-up, lipstick and nail polish, in her late twenties, John guessed. Underneath her medium brown coat she wore a tight black dress, which showed off her cleavage and big breasts, grey pantyhose.

"Yes, first time," John confirmed. His heart was beating faster.

"Hello, I'm Sabine," the woman introduced herself.

***


	22. Under normal circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under normal circumstances he would sit down and talk with someone he was romantically interested in first, like he had with Jamie, before taking things further.

In the absence of available information, Sherlock wanted very much to check out this bar, to reassure himself that John was okay. If John saw him, though, he might get mad, accuse him of spying on him, insist that he had the right to go out by himself if he so wished, which of course he did.

After five minutes a taxi pulled up in front of the Black Tulip. When it drove off, the passenger, a woman with long black hair, wearing a medium brown coat and high heels, entered the bar. Sherlock took a deep breath, his curiosity won out, he crossed the road.

On the glass pane he noticed the small rainbow-colors-striped sticker, 'Everyone Welcome!' written beside it. Looking through the glass in the door, he saw John sitting on the right side of the counter close to the door, the woman that had just entered, Italian looking, on the stool to his left. Two couples sat in booths on the left side of the room, a small stage was visible at the far back. On the wall behind the bar was a sign with three rules, on each side of the counter baskets and biohazard containers. He looked at the sign on the wall and John again, then made his way back across the street to keep waiting in the alley.

This felt worse than when he had lain on his bed and heard John and Jamie enter their apartment. Did John know this woman and they had agreed to meet here, or was this a chance encounter? From the little he had seen of her, she certainly had not much in common with Jamie Marsden. Disrupting this 'meeting' was out of the question. Sherlock bit his lip, if he had cigarettes along he would be smoking. Instead he started pacing, nervously clenched his fists. Only the text on the sign was reassuring.

***

"What's your name?" Sabine asked John.

"I'd prefer to remain anonymous," John heard himself say, surprised.

"Hmm,... Mr. Anonymous, would you like to come along to my place to have sex?" this stranger eyed her prospective sex-partner sideways.

John had not even finished his orange juice yet. He gulped.

"Erm, just like that? Wouldn't you like to talk first?"

"No... not in the mood for talking...," Sabine moved her hand closer to John's. "Drink up, so we can leave already!"

John's eyebrows rose at the proposition. He looked at Tim for approval, disapproval or advice, but Tim only shrugged his shoulders. Apparently it was quite normal at this bar to be picked up on your first visit within five minutes.

"Are you single?" John chose to ask after not seeing any ring or ring marks on the tanned skin of Sabine's right hand.

"Yep," she placed her left hand on the counter for his inspection as well.

John would have liked to take a really close look. He did not want to commit adultery with someone's spouse.

"Alright." After all, he had set out this evening to have sex with a woman. If he had known it would be this easy to find a willing sex-partner, he could have come here a few years ago already... But then, this place was strictly for people that were _not_ looking for a relationship, he reminded himself.

John didn't feel like talking much himself. Having finished his orange juice he said, "Good night," to Tim, then got up off the bar stool.

"Attaboy," Simone purred and got up as well.

The two 'couples' on the other side of the room still didn't pay them any attention. As soon as they were through the door, Sabine took John's arm. He blinked, for she had not asked his permission before touching him. Unlike Sherlock, who always asked, made sure his touching was welcome. At the curb, Sabine pressed closer to John. He was not sure whether he should be glad or resent her for it. Nevertheless, he hailed a cab.

He held the door open for Sabine, then got in after her. She had already given the taxi driver the address by the time he was seated, then pressed close to him again. His eyes widened, surprised.

"You mind? It's been a while that I've been close to a man."

John cleared his throat, shook his head, he wasn't sure what, if anything, she was implying. Obviously she meant physically close, not emotionally close, because they had only spoken a few sentences. He really was not in the mood for carrying on a conversation with this woman. One should not assume about other people. That's why usually people talked at least some, to get to know the other person a little, before having sex with each other. After he had mentioned that he wanted to remain anonymous Sabine didn't seem interested in getting to know him even a little.

Instead, she took his hand, unasked, placed it on her knee. "Hmm...? Why don't you go 'explore'..."

John shook his head imperceptibly. This was going too fast for his liking. His penis, however, reacted at the suggestion of exploring. He moved his hand only a few centimeters up her thigh, then stopped, not keen on having the taxi driver possibly observe them in the rear view mirror.

"Are you shy?" she asked.

"No," John said clipped, "just not into public sexual touching with people I've just met."

"At least you know what you want. - Hopefully you'll want to touch the rest of me..." She rubbed John's knee firmly with her hand, unasked, then proceeded to nuzzle his neck. "We should get there soon."

John realized, that when it came to whether or not to have a romantic relationship with Sherlock, he did not know what he wanted. His penis told his brain that he liked Sabine touching his knee, she should move her hand up higher... He closed his eyes, tried to tell himself to 'chill' until they were somewhere private. He took his hand off her thigh, then removed her hand from his knee.

"We should wait. Okay?"

"Spoilsport," she pouted, running her fingers through her long black hair and looking out the window. For the rest of the ride she kept her hands and mouth to herself, did not say another word to John. Once the taxi was stopped she did not wait for him at the curb, instead went ahead to open the door of her two-stories, narrow townhouse. After letting herself in she left the door ajar.

By the time John turned around from paying the driver he noticed that Sabine wasn't there anymore. It took him two seconds to spot the door left open a gap, he interpreted it as an invitation to follow her inside. Before entering, he knocked.

"Sabine?"

"Man...," he heard her exasperated voice inside, "come in already!"

Opening the door, John saw her standing in the middle of the living room without shoes, coat, or dress. She wore a short, rather see-through, black babydoll, no panties, the gray pantyhose was actually stockings held up by a suspender belt. After gazing at the black hair in her pubic area for a second, John remembered to close the front door with his shoulder, then leaned his back on it for support.

"Wow!" The sight of her full breasts with large areolae and hard nipples through the sheer fabric left him speechless.

Sabine smiled, pleased with his appreciation of her physical attributes. "Get rid of those clothes," she instructed, turned, then walked towards a room at the end of the living room, a guest room John presumed, winking at him with her curled forefinger to follow.

He quickly hung up his coat on the hat stand by the front door and took his shoes off, then followed her right away.

Under normal circumstances he would sit down and talk with someone he was romantically interested in first, like he had with Jamie, before taking things further. If he was at someone else's place he would look around the room, take in what photographs might reveal about the person. Normally, he would be more aware of his surroundings, notice that it was already dark outside, and with the curtains not being the black-out type, anybody would be able to see inside the house and observe them. Normally, he might notice the faint draft of a balcony door left open a few centimeters...

But nothing about this evening was normal. John did not notice what he normally might have. Once inside that bedroom he stripped down to his pants. _Vagina_ , his penis reminded his brain, getting harder.

***

Since the Black Tulip was not situated on a main road, not that many taxis came by. Anticipating John's departure, possibly with that woman, Sherlock called for a cab, instructing it to wait in a side street, out of John's sight. Soon after, John and that woman came out. John hailed a taxi, at which point Sherlock called his taxi to come pick him up right away.

He noticed that John looked uncomfortable when 'that woman' pressed against him, for which he was glad. Getting into his cab, instructing the driver to follow John's, discreetly, he could see them sitting close together. After a few minutes, though, the woman looked out the window on her side for the remainder of the ride. He raised his eyebrows when he saw her enter a small two-stories house without waiting for John. Sherlock paid for his fare, but waited until John was inside that house before getting out. As soon as the lights were turned on it became clear that one would be able to see what was happening inside.

To Sherlock, something felt 'off' about this place. If John had a 'type', this woman did not fit it. He decided to stick around, see what he could find out. A narrow path led between the neighboring house and the house John was in to the backyard.

Walking as quietly as he could into the backyard, hiding behind a small tool shed, he narrowed his eyes and winced, because through those flimsy curtains covering the windows and patio door, the occupants inside the house were quite visible: the woman dressed in a sheer black babydoll with suspender belt and grey stockings, and John with an obvious erection bulging his pants standing less than two meters from her.

Next, Sherlock noticed that the patio door was not fully closed on this mild fall evening, and that there was a figure crouching on the ground, not far from the door, watching the imminent prelude to sex inside, mesmerized. As the person adjusted their position, the moonlight reflected off something in their hand. Alarmed, Sherlock realized the person, a man, held a knife.

***


	23. John!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _ **John!**_ " Sherlock called as loud as he could, trying to warn the friend he loved, not because he was afraid for his own life or requested his help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** Please do not read if you are bothered or triggered by description of physical fighting, injury, use of deadly force!

In the guestroom, a double bed was placed against the left wall. It was covered in sinful looking dark red satin sheets, as well as a couple of puffy, black accent cushions with tassels on each corner. The ceiling light must have a dimmer switch, because the room felt partly lit.

John was staring as Sabine touched her breast with one hand through the sheer fabric, with the other hand touched her pubic area while swaying her hips invitingly. All that was missing was drool to start dripping from his mouth. His mind was running ahead, picturing what he would do with this, apparently, willing sex-partner.

Slowly, he stepped closer to her. She gave him a promising, satisfied smile in return, moved closer to the bed, keeping the distance between John and her. _Closer, closer..._ John's mind instructed him. Sabine's long black hair was partially draped over her breasts. He did notice that she glanced at the curtains briefly.

Grabbing both her hands, he held them to her side and pressed their bodies together. His penis, still confined in his pants, got harder at the contact. Sabine smelled nice. Still holding her hands, her lips and mouth welcomed his kiss. The sensation of her breasts against his chest felt good and right. John breathed a sigh of relief. So far he had not wished yet that this person was Sherlock.

He let go of one of her hands in order to pull her head close to deepen the kiss. Yes, this - kissing a woman, having a female body with female breasts pressed against him - felt familiar. Relieved, John proceeded to maneuver them to the edge of the bed. His trousers, socks and shirt lay crumpled on the floor. He had forgotten to grab a condom from his coat pocket.

Asking someone this shortly before having sex whether they were clear of STDs, or demanding to see their latest test results would be wise, but he felt it would be interrupting "the mood", too personal and intrusive. Sabine could have brought the subject up during the cab ride, but she had not. Practicing safe sex with a stranger was the right choice in these circumstances!

"Hmm," John hummed, "while I do look forward to take this further, I'll go grab a condom quickly. You want to get comfortable in bed already? Be back in a sec." He used both his hands to stroke Sabine's shoulders briefly.

Sabine, who clearly had been into kissing John, worried her lower lip, but nodded for him to proceed. He turned and walked back to the hat stand by the door, retrieved one of the condoms from his coat pocket. Pleased about how the evening was going so far, John returned to the guest room with eager steps, condom in hand. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sabine spread her legs apart. The garter belt and stockings were gone, now lay neatly folded on the floor beside her left foot.

John smiled happily at her. Sabine smiled back. He knew that many women preferred at least some foreplay. So even though he longed to press his penis into her vagina already he decided to spend some time on pleasing her with his hands and mouth first. Taking his pants off revealed his penis erect, engorged, eager, wet at the tip. Kneeling between her legs, he placed his pants and the condom by Sabine's right foot, then stroked both his hands up her thighs.

***

Squinting, Sherlock tried to figure out why this man had apparently been waiting for the return of that woman. Was he a stalker? Had the patio door been ajar the whole time, or had it been opened just recently?

He did not have much time to consider these questions since the man, who was dressed in a black track suit and black sneakers, started to shift, getting closer to the patio door. One deliberate push, and he'd be inside. With the knife. Sherlock could not let a man holding a knife with a 12 inch blade get close to John, who was practically naked except for his pants. Naturally, John would try to protect the woman... Despite his military training he might get hurt in the process.

Slowly, the man started to get up.

Sherlock left his hiding place behind the shed, tried to get as close to the man as quietly as possible. With the full moon it was not as dark as he would have liked. Calculating how best to disarm him, to keep him from entering the room, he noticed too late that his own reflection was becoming visible in the glass.

The man quickly spun around, lifted the arm holding the knife in order to strike.

Sherlock had not had a lot of time to plan his defense strategy out. If he could manage, he would prefer to quietly subdue this stalker, drag him to the front of the house, call the police from there. He would definitely prefer that John not even find out that he had followed him here. But, no question, John's safety was paramount.

He raised his left arm to block the path of the knife, while grabbing his opponent's hand holding the knife with his right hand. Intercepting the force this man used to try to stab him hurt. The muscles around his wrist, where he was holding it, were very firm.

Sherlock concluded that this was a bodybuilder. Even though in height he was shorter than Sherlock, physically he was heavier and stronger. With only the moonlight, the black track suit and black sneakers he was wearing had concealed the fact of his physical fitness and muscle mass. The expression on his face, his features suggested Italian descent, could only be described as jealous. A lover, boyfriend, significant other, or ex-, then.

The man fought hard to get Sherlock to loosen the grip on his hand. When that didn't work, he grabbed Sherlock's coat and spun them around. Sherlock hit the back of his head on the wall. Fighting with a stalker or not, at this point Sherlock still preferred John not find out he was here, so he kept quiet.

His adversary glanced at the partially open patio door, betraying his intent to enter. He struggled in earnest now to get free from Sherlock, kneeing him in the stomach. Sherlock closed his eyes in pain, but didn't let go of his hand. The man slammed Sherlock into the wall again, hard, then walked backwards.

For a few seconds Sherlock thought the stalker would give up on getting inside the flat. But the cold calculating stare of his eyes said he meant business to commit triple murder in cold blood.

Sherlock had done an admirable job keeping the knife at bay, even had managed to kick at the man's knees and groin. But, being physically stronger, the man was able to push Sherlock on his back to the ground. Landing heavily on top of him, he yanked his hand free and right away brought the knife down. Since Sherlock's coat was open, the blade hit his sternum, briefly got stuck.

" _ **John!**_ " Sherlock called as loud as he could, trying to warn the friend he loved, not because he was afraid for his own life or requested his help. _God, protect John!_ he prayed as the knife was yanked out of his sternum and right away was thrust with great force into his chest to the left of it. The blade sank in deep between his ribs, missing his heart and left lung, but damaging pulmonary blood vessels in the process.

Sherlock registered pain. The man's weight was heavy on him. He wanted to call to John again. But his nose was covered, and his neck being compressed. He struggled for air, could not take a breath. The man was trying to smother him.

 _God, protect John!_ he thought again, squeezing his eyes shut with the effort of trying to free himself, in vain. He did not have time to think any further about the fact that, quite possibly, his physical body might soon be dead. His struggles ceased as he lost consciousness.

***

A muffled thump against the outside wall caught John's attention. Wondering what it could be, he frowned and got up. There was another thump.

"Do you know what could cause this banging?" John asked, looking at the direction of the sound. Since practically the whole back wall was covered by a dark blue curtain reaching all the way to the floor, it was not obvious that there was a window and patio door behind it.

"Is there a way outside from here?" he asked putting his by now half-hard penis back into his pants, then reaching for his trousers and shirt, he didn't bother with his socks and shoes.

Sabine huffed, visibly displeased. "If you must. Pull the curtain to the side, there's a patio door."

John did as she said and was surprised to see the patio door open a few centimeters, not fully locked.

"Did you forget to close this?" he asked looking back at Sabine.

"Must have...," Sabine said in a quiet voice, staring at the carpet.

Just then, someone outside shouted " _ **John!**_ " The voice, John realized, sounded like Sherlock's, urgent and alarmed. It was a warning. His heart rate picked up, adrenaline kicked in. Flying through the patio door, ready for combat, it took him only half a second to take in the scene unfolding in the faint moonlight about 15 meters away: someone dressed in black with black hair was sitting on top of Sherlock. _Shit!!_

John raced to tackle the person. Coming from behind he had the element of surprise. He threw himself at the person, but found their body quite bulky, firm and strong, they didn't even budge. He had not been prepared to see a knife sticking out of Sherlock's left chest, and this attacker's hands on his nose and neck. Realizing that Sherlock was in immediate danger of being smothered to death, John furiously tried to remove those hands, so Sherlock would be able to breathe. But the man had a death grip.

"Let go of him!" John shouted, and began hitting and kicking the man, who appeared unaffected by the punches. Since he had not brought his gun this evening, in short order John decided he might have to resort to deadly force to save Sherlock.

 _God, help and forgive me!_ he prayed, decision made. He placed himself behind the man, whose strong neck muscles were no match for John's determination to break his neck. John guided his limp, heavy, body off to the side, off Sherlock. He fell to his knees, his heart sank.

"Call 999! Now!" he shouted in the direction of the flat, where he saw Sabine stand by the patio door. "Now!! Quick!"

Sherlock was unconscious, but John was tremendously grateful to see his chest rise and fall, air filling his lungs again. John was breathing hard himself from the fight.

_Thank you, God, he's alive!_

***


	24. It hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It hurts." He tried to reach for the knife, to pull it out. John intercepted Sherlock's hand immediately, held on. "Don't!" His voice was firm. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry. The blade needs to stay where it is, for now."

Since Sherlock was breathing on his own, John quickly checked on his attacker. The man lay completely still. John reached for his wrist anyway, there was no pulse. He was indeed dead. Despite that John would have preferred a still greater distance between him and Sherlock. But, this was a crime scene that should not be disturbed, and Sherlock should not be moved just yet.

John swallowed and blinked. He had taken another life in order to save Sherlock. This time, though, he would have to answer questions. People's necks didn't break by themselves.

He knelt back down by Sherlock's side, took his vitals. He was in doctor mode, he could do this. Blinking back tears, he pushed back anger at himself about the fact that Sherlock had gotten hurt on account of him. Obviously he had known what the purpose of John's evening out really was and decided to follow him. Recalling the partially open patio door, Sherlock had probably saved his and Sabine's lives.

The knife would have to be removed in an operating room. John stroked his hand across Sherlock's forehead and cheek. His skin was beginning to feel cool and clammy.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Be right back," he added, before dashing into the flat.

Sabine sat on the couch in the living room with her hands clasped in her lap. She had put on casual clothes in the meantime. The phone lay on the coffee table.

"Did you call 999?" John asked with urgency. He bent down beside her very briefly, touched her arm lightly. "Are you alright?"

Sabine nodded, her face looked pale and grave. "What happened?" she asked.

"I don't know all the details." Since he met Sabine anonymously, he decided to keep information about what happened outside to a minimum. "Apparently there was a fight, two casualties are lying in your backyard. I'll grab my coat and shoes, wait outside with them until the medics and police arrive."

Quietly, Sabine nodded agreement. She wasn't crying or hysteric, but the way she held her hands and lips tightly pressed together suggested that she felt stress over the present situation.

"You're safe waiting here," John added, moving on.

While fetching his coat from the hat stand by the front door, he noticed a small side table with knick-knacks and an overturned picture frame on it nearby. Thinking that maybe in his haste he had bumped the table, he reached to right the frame. The picture showed Sabine and the man lying dead outside, as a couple! John stared for a moment, his breathing increased. He did not know their circumstances before tonight, but chose to leave the picture overturned, in case he had not bumped it.

Running with his coat and shoes in hand past Sabine, he said, "Send the medics and police to the backyard. What's the address here?"

Sabine hollered it after him as he picked up his socks and the condom from the guestroom.

John estimated he had been gone less than 90 seconds. The sound of sirens could already be heard in the distance. He hoped they were coming for Sherlock. He checked on him again, he was still unconscious, then put on his coat, socks and shoes. The condom disappeared in his coat pocket.

Since he didn't know who would be in charge of the investigation here tonight, he wondered briefly whether he should call Mycroft. 'Sorry, I'm likely responsible that your brother got stabbed.' - 'I'm not sorry I killed the guy that attacked him. I didn't really have a choice since he was being smothered to death.' Sighing, he pulled out his phone, dialed Mycroft's number.

"Good evening, John," Mycroft answered after two rings.

Putting pleasantries aside, John blurted out the facts. "Sherlock's been stabbed, but alive. I'm waiting for the ambulance and police at...," he gave the address. "Couldn't get his attacker's hands off his nose and mouth. I broke his neck."

After a brief pause Mycroft sighed. "Is Sherlock going to be alright?"

"I hope so. Most stabbings are not fatal."

"Thank you for letting me know, John. I trust you will look after my brother. Let me know where he's being taken. We can talk there, later. Do you need assistance with the police end of things?"

"I'll let you know if I do."

Mycroft sighed again. "Talk to you later." He hung up.

Lying on the ground, Sherlock was regaining consciousness, he moaned, his face showed that he was in pain. Feeling pain meant that he was still alive. _I didn't die_ , he thought, relieved.

"John?" He needed to reassure himself that John was alive and well.

"Right here," John said softly kneeling by Sherlock's right side. "Paramedics are on their way."

Sherlock was breathing a little faster. "It hurts." He tried to reach for the knife, to pull it out.

John intercepted Sherlock's hand immediately, held on.

"Don't!" His voice was firm. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry. The blade needs to stay where it is, for now. - I had to kill the guy who hurt you, couldn't loosen his grip on you."

The sound of sirens was getting closer.

Sherlock let his hand sink back down to his side. He was glad John did not let go. He turned his head a little, trying to see John's face. John was staring at the ground. He looked sad and guilty.

"I'm not mad that you followed me, Sherlock. Should have known. Turns out that woman I left the bar with knows the stupid bastard that was trying to kill you. Found a picture after. They were a couple at one point."

Sherlock would have liked to say something reassuring to John, that it was not his fault this had happened. He would have liked to take John in his arms, take the guilt he obviously felt away.

"Not your fault...," was all he could manage. He found breathing was becoming more difficult by the minute. The sound of sirens had stopped, now the alternating bright-dark-bright of the emergency vehicle lights parked in front of the house reached into the backyard. John was still holding his hand. If he wasn't stabbed, if his chest and breathing didn't hurt, he would be able to enjoy this simple touch.

Via the path between the houses, medics carrying their first aid bags appeared in the backyard. Sabine must have sent them around.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand briefly, then got up to make room for them. "I'm not hurt," John said. "That one's dead," he nodded in the direction of the man lying not far from Sherlock. "It sounds like my friend here may be developing hemothorax. - I'm a doctor," John clarified.

The medics had split up, one ascertaining the man John had indicated was indeed dead, the other kneeling down beside Sherlock. Taking his vitals, he asked him some questions, then nodded at John.

"Idiot in the track suit stabbed me." Sherlock pointed out, to make sure it was known who had attacked him. His eyes were drifting shut again, tears were threatening to spill from them. Sentiment! The pressure in the left side of his chest was increasing. He tried to get up.

"Stay down, sir," the medic on his left said firmly, finishing up his assessment of the wound. "We'll be right back with a stretcher."

Police stepped into the backyard through the patio door, inquired about the condition of the casualties. One of the medics explained that the man in the track suit was deceased, the other stabbed. Then they went via the path between the houses to get a stretcher.

Before addressing John, Inspector Morrison from the local police department called in the fatality.

"Ms. Sabine Giovanni, who resides here, informed us that she met you at a local bar, that the two of you came here afterwards."

"Dr. John Watson," John introduced himself. He was kneeling beside Sherlock again, holding his hand. "We were in the guest room when I heard noises outside. I decided to have a look, found the patio door partly open behind the pulled curtain. When I came out I saw this man," John pointed to the body behind him, "trying to smother Sherlock Holmes here to death."

Inspector Morrison's eyes widened a bit at the mention of Sherlock Holmes. He had not met him in person, only heard of him through the media. "That Dr. John Watson?" he asked almost in awe. "You were on a case?"

"Yes, that one, and no, we weren't."

"Hmm?" the Inspector hummed with a puzzled face.

"I didn't know Mr. Holmes had followed me here." John hoped he wouldn't be asked to elaborate. "When all my efforts to get the attacker to stop his lethal assault failed, I did what I needed to do to ensure Mr. Holmes's survival," John admitted looking the Inspector straight in the eye. "Cause of death is, you will find, broken neck. Really, I tried, I had no other choice," his voice was getting quieter.

Sherlock, who had been listening, squeezed John's hand.

The Inspector sighed, scribbling the main points of what John had said into his notebook.

Just then, the medics returned with a stretcher. Inspector Morrison stepped to the side to make room for them. John got up.

"Mr. Holmes, you had followed Dr. Watson, the deceased stabbed you and tried to kill you by smothering you to death in the backyard?" the Inspector asked to verify John's version of events.

Sherlock nodded as the medics lifted him unto the stretcher. "John, you said..." Being moved hurt, he didn't like the feeling of having difficulty breathing.

John sighed. "Ms. Giovanni knows the deceased. I saw a picture of her and him on a small side table by the front door in an overturned picture frame. She hasn't been outside, may not be aware of what transpired. I don't know about the status of their relationship."

The Inspector's eyebrows rose. The medics were getting ready to move Sherlock to the ambulance, he nodded at them to proceed. "Dr. Watson, can you show me that picture?"

John bit his lower lip. "Please wait a minute so I can ride along in the ambulance. Be right there," he addressed the medics, then followed the inspector into the flat. Passing Sabine, who was sitting on the couch with a policewoman, he nodded in her direction without looking at her. His mind was occupied with thoughts of Sherlock. He took Inspector Morrison straight to the side table and handed him the frame with the picture of Sabine and the man, who was now dead.

"Thank you for pointing this out to us. I take it you've never met the deceased before?" the Inspector asked John.

John shook his head.

"Alright. We'll have her identify him. You're free to go. We'll get your and Mr. Holmes's formal statements at a later time." The Inspector turned to Sabine and asked her and the policewoman to follow him outside.

John left through the front door, got into the waiting ambulance right away, glad the police hadn't kept him any longer than they did. The doors of the ambulance were closed, they started to drive, the sirens were put on again. The medic had called ahead to Emergency they would be arriving with a stabbing victim.

"Which hospital?" John asked. He texted Mycroft they were en route to hospital, he'd contact him from there. Then he took Sherlock's hand again. That they were not officially together yet at this point did not matter to him. He didn't care what the medic thought.

The medic was quiet, Sherlock was quiet, John was quiet. The stillness, only broken by Sherlock's labored breathing sounds, the sirens and equipment inside the ambulance sometimes rattling as they sped towards the hospital, made John feel uncomfortable. _If I hadn't gone along to Sabine's flat..._

Meanwhile, an oxygen mask had been placed on Sherlock's face. His skin was starting to look paler, he was perspiring. John glanced at their hands, not noticing that Sherlock had been observing him until he felt his hand squeezed. Whatever Sherlock was trying to say sounded muffled by the oxygen mask.

"What is it?" John asked leaning closer to Sherlock. Pulling the oxygen mask away for a few seconds to be able to hear what he was saying should not hurt. He made eye contact with the medic, who had been watching and now nodded.

"It's _not_ your fault!" Sherlock said - as emphatically as a person whose left chest cavity was likely filling with blood could, John noted. "Stop feeling guilty. You need to forgive yourself." Exhausted, Sherlock fell quiet again, closed his eyes. John put the oxygen mask back in place.

John was surprised that Sherlock chose those words to say to John at this time. He shook his head. On an intellectual level he knew Sherlock was right. On an emotional level, though, he was still blaming himself for Sherlock's injury, his anger about himself had not diminished yet.

"Right. You're right," he acknowledged. "I'll do that, when I can." He exhaled through his nose.

Sherlock squeezed his hand again, quite firm this time, insisting John do as he asked.

The ambulance pulled up at the Emergency entrance, stopped. The doors in the back were opened from outside, Sherlock, lying on the stretcher, taken out. One medic pulling the stretcher from the front, one pushing it from behind, John walking along on the right, they made their way to the entrance doors of the emergency department. A sign, "Doctors and Patients Only, unless authorized", was posted beside it.

"I'm a doctor," John pointed out, hoping to sway the male nurse insisting he not follow any further.

"Please say your goodbyes here for now." The nurse pointed a stern finger at the sign. "Doctor or not, you don't work here."

Looking at the floor, John pursed his lips. He knew Mycroft would see to it that any doctor or nurse not providing the best care for his younger brother would meet with consequences. He stepped close to the stretcher.

"See you after the surgery, Sherlock." He kissed Sherlock on the forehead, then let them proceed through the doors.

Breathing still hurt, the oxygen mask was annoying, but Sherlock was grateful for the affection John showed him through this kiss.

The waiting area for emergency patients actually had padded chairs, to keep those waiting for news on the progress of loved ones and friends comfortable. Some people waited hours, some slept in them. Often the news they received was good, sometimes it was bad, sometimes devastating. John hoped to receive positive news in a few hours. Sinking into one of the chairs, he sat for a minute, reflecting, then texted Mycroft that he was waiting at the hospital while Sherlock was in surgery.

***


	25. In the recovery room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock smiled back. "Before you go, any word yet on the relationship of the man John killed, and the woman inside the house?"

Surgery to remove the blade from Sherlock's chest and repair the nicked pulmonary blood vessels took a little over one and a half hours. Mycroft had texted John halfway through, requesting an update. _All going well so far, I've been told_ , John had texted him back.

Waiting had been hard for John. He'd gone to the loo first, rinsing his mouth and wiping the outside of it with water. As exciting as it had been to look forward to have sex with Sabine, anonymously even, the knowledge that she knew Sherlock's attacker had left a 'sour taste' in his mouth. At this point he did not know whether she had left the patio door open on purpose, whether he had been the intended target, Sherlock only happened to intervene. If that was the case and John had survived, Sherlock could be sitting here now, waiting.

He didn't want to drink regular coffee this late at night, so got a decaf from a vending machine instead. It tasted rather bland in the thin paper cup. Turning it between his hands, he thought about Sherlock insisting, really, that he forgive himself, to stop feeling guilty, that it was not his fault. He'd said the same to Sherlock when it had become obvious that he had not forgiven himself yet for having been raped. And Sherlock had listened to John, prayed to forgive himself.

To forgive oneself, what a concept, sometimes was necessary for a person to move on with their life, John mused. Scrubbing his hand over his eyes, he shook his head. _Why am I not even bisexual? Sherlock has a great mind and a great body, really I should be happy and flattered that he wants to be in a committed relationship with me._ The experiment tonight had been a spectacular failure. John concluded that he was, still, heterosexual, that his natural sexual orientation had not changed - yet. Would it ever? _What am I going to answer him?_

After finishing his decaf coffee, John decided to stop by the non-denominational hospital chapel, to remember Sherlock in prayer. He'd lit a candle, now sat on one of the chairs in the front. Sherlock had squeezed his hand quite firmly. The fact that he had killed a man to save Sherlock's life did not really bother his conscience. _God, forgive me that I killed someone_ , he confessed anyway.

However, being the one who had led Sherlock to Sabine's house where he probably would have died if John had not helped him, still caused him to beat himself up over it. _God, I forgive myself that through my actions tonight Sherlock got hurt, his life was in danger_ , he chose to pray as well. He still felt disgusted with himself. At least he'd said the words, should Sherlock ask.

Only two days ago he had taken communion again after a long time. Sherlock had talked with God, actually, showed him the pile of tissues he'd dried his eyes and nose with, had found out that he was baptized. At the time, John had encouraged Sherlock, now Sherlock, despite having gotten hurt, was encouraging him. Somehow, two days ago seemed much farther away. John felt older and, hopefully, wiser. _Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom_ , he remembered.

Someone else entered the chapel, went to the front to light a candle, then sat down in the same row as John, leaving one chair empty between them. When John finally glanced over at that person's shoes on the floor, their immaculate shine suggested they might belong to Mycroft. John looked up further to find that indeed it was him. Mycroft probably knew already that he had met his female companion at the Black Tulip, knew why John, of all people, had gone there specifically.

 _Right, I just forgave myself! I don't need him to blame me for Sherlock's injury and nearly getting killed._ John bit his lip, looked back at the floor without saying a word.

Beside him, Mycroft sighed, then got up saying, "I'll be in the waiting area, when you can join me." He left as quietly as he had come in, John noted the absence of his umbrella clicking on the floor. After a couple more minutes John went to join Mycroft.

"I've read Inspector Morrison's interim report," Mycroft jumped right in. "Ms. Giovanni identified Sherlock's attacker as her husband, Antonio Giovanni. She could not provide a plausible reason as to why her _not_ estranged husband would be outside their own patio door with a knife. I'm sure Sherlock will have figured it out in no time. An autopsy will be performed, regardless, to see whether there might have been an organic cause." Mycroft paused.

John cleared his throat, glad that Mycroft appeared determined not to mention the Black Tulip and why John had been there in the first place.

"The patio door was definitely open before I went outside," John pointed out. "I don't think he was after Sherlock, since he couldn't have known that Sherlock had followed me."

Mycroft nodded. "He is dead, after all. The question remains whether Ms. Giovanni knew he was there, and if yes, for what purpose."

John frowned. "If she did, would there be consequences for her?"

"I think so, yes," Mycroft confirmed without elaborating.

Apparently Mycroft had decided not to even ask about the status of Sherlock's and John's relationship, where they were at. Sitting in a chair across from John, he waited patiently, keeping himself busy with reading and texting from his phone.

After 10 minutes a doctor came in to let them know that Sherlock was out of surgery, it had been successful. He would have to be in the recovery area for a while, and then stay in hospital for a few days.

Since this hospital had a private wing, Mycroft arranged for Sherlock to have a room. He would be moved there, later.

"Is he awake? May we see him already?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, follow me. This way." The doctor led them down a corridor to a room with several beds. Sherlock's was closest to the door on the right. John was relieved to see him. He still looked pale, not happy. A couple of IV tubes were attached to his arm, the fluids dripping from the bags hanging from a metal stand visible. The knife was gone, a large bandage covering the stitches. A tube with a small clear bag attached to it had been inserted just below to facilitate drainage of any remaining and accumulating blood and fluids.

"I want to go home," Sherlock greeted them, complaining. "This place is boring, I can't stand it." He began to giggle, likely as a result of the painkillers he was on.

"I'm glad you're almost back to being yourself again so shortly after surgery, brother," Mycroft sounded pleased. "I'll be along then, so you and John can talk. - Do you have to work tomorrow, John?" Mycroft inquired.

"Oh, I forgot!" John pulled his phone out. "Excuse me a minute while I try to sort this." He stepped back out into the hallway briefly. His boss informed him that he had to be there for the first part of his shift since one colleague had called in sick, he could have the afternoon off. _Sodding, bloody...!_

"I have to work only the morning. Sorry, I wish I didn't!" Sherlock, alone in a private hospital room, would probably be crawling up the walls with boredom by the time he'd be able to show up after lunch.

Working in the morning also meant he'd have to get some sleep, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone at hospital... He felt quite protective, like a guard dog.

"I'm sure it can be arranged that you can stay overnight with my brother here, if you'd prefer, John. I can have some fresh clothes brought from Baker Street, if you want," Mycroft offered.

 _Right, Mycroft could do that!_ John narrowed his eyes.

"I think John would prefer to get his own clothes and toiletries and then return here. Would you?" Sherlock made short work of the decision how to go about it.

"Yes, that," John agreed, shaking his head at Sherlock's ability to read him so quickly. "Amazing!" He smiled.

Sherlock smiled back. "Before you go, any word yet on the relationship of the man John killed, and the woman inside the house?"

Sherlock did not say 'that woman that John picked up at that bar', John noted, grateful.

"They were married, _not_ estranged," Mycroft supplied, nearly rolling his eyes remembering the _not_ had been triple underlined in Inspector Morrison's interim report.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed. "Interesting..." He hummed some more, giggling at the sensation. "The patio door was already open when I arrived, meaning it was left open while said woman was out, or deliberately opened once she was back. _Usually_ ," Sherlock was slurring, "no one engaging in sex leaves their patio door open behind from-the-outside-see-through curtains, unless they want to be observed and interrupted. Since they were _nooot_ estranged," Sherlock drew out the 'o', giggling, "it would appear that this couple shared a kink, with the husband threatening, hurting, or killing his wife's sex partners, both of them getting off on it. You should definitely question her again. Just because he's dead does not mean she'll stop."

Mycroft's eyebrows had climbed listening. "I shall have the case transferred to DI Lestrade, explain your theory to him."

John's eyes had gotten bigger. He did not doubt that Sherlock's interpretation was right. So he had been the intended target! Sabine's life had not been in danger, but his.

"Are you going to be alright for about an hour?" John asked. "I'll have a shower at Baker Street, pack a bag with some clothes. By the time I'm back you might even be settled in your private room yet."

"Easy!" Sherlock blinked at him.

"I'll be waiting in the car," Mycroft announced. "I'm glad you're not alone here, Sherlock," he said giving his brother's shoulder a short squeeze.

"Make sure John gets back here soon then," Sherlock demanded.

"I will," Mycroft reassured him. "Good night!" With that Mycroft left before John.

"You're brilliant!" John praised Sherlock. "I'm off then, too. Do you want me to bring you anything from home?"

 _Home_ , John called it, Sherlock noted. "You could bring my new pants. I could let you look at me wearing them. I also have curry-colored ones. They're in the top drawer of my dresser..."

Sherlock's eyes were drifting shut. With any luck he'd be sleeping during John's brief absence.

"Okay. I'll see you soon. Try to sleep. We can talk some more when I'm back."

Sherlock didn't open his eyes again, just nodded that he had heard. John squeezed Sherlock's right biceps and pressed a kiss on top of his head, then left the recovery room quietly to join Mycroft in his waiting car.

***


	26. Feeling tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You look tired," John remarked. By now it was past 11 PM. "I'll go inquire whether you can be moved to your private room soon so we can get you settled for the night."

Mycroft dropped John off at Baker Street. A car would be waiting in 25 minutes, without him, he said, to take John back to the hospital. John thanked Mycroft, then made his way up the stairs. Inside their flat, everything looked exactly as when John had left earlier tonight. He should have foreseen that Sherlock might follow him. Tired, he hung up his coat by the front door, then put the kettle on in the kitchen. The water could boil while he was taking a shower.

In the bathroom, he piled all his clothes in the laundry hamper. Somehow, having been in Sabine's flat, they felt dirty. Washing his hair with shampoo and his body with shower gel all over, then rinsing, made him feel better. After towelling off, he brushed his teeth properly for good measure. Now, if he could only scrub Sabine and her husband trying to kill Sherlock from his memory. Hopefully, Greg would not ask him embarrassing questions. While the Black Tulip served its specific purpose, he wished he hadn't gone out this evening at all.

Naked, he wandered into the kitchen, hung a tea bag into a mug, then poured water over it. It could steep while he got dressed in his bedroom upstairs. He put a change of clothes into a bag, added a few toiletries, his laptop and some reading material from the living room, including Sherlock's small bible and a few of his music CDs.

Back in the kitchen, he tossed the tea bag in the sink. The tea had cooled down enough to start drinking. He divided the potato and leek soup into a few portions, put them in the freezer for later consumption, then quickly washed the pot. For a late night snack he picked an apple from the fruit basket, washed it. While chewing it he remembered Sherlock's request to bring along his new pants.

Over in Sherlock's bedroom in the dresser, top drawer, lay the pants, one leek-green, one curry-colored, neatly folded. Yes, these particular pants were definitely interesting, he hesitated to even touch them. If Sherlock wore these with John around, he would definitely feel possessive, would not want anyone else to touch him.

Up until recently he didn't even know that seeing Sherlock in natural-fabric clothes was a turn-on for him. His body just reacted, without asking his mind for consent. But then, he had never seen Sherlock wear such clothes, it was not his usual choice of fabric or style. Sighing, he retrieved them from the drawer, then buried them underneath his own clothes in the bag. Maybe Sherlock had only suggested to bring them under the influence of the painkillers.

After 24 minutes he put on his coat, bag in hand, locked their apartment and the outside door, then let Mycroft's car take him back to the hospital where Sherlock was still in the recovery area.

"How are you feeling?" John asked him.

Sherlock shrugged his good shoulder only in reply.

"You look tired," John remarked. By now it was past 11 PM. "I'll go inquire whether you can be moved to your private room soon so we can get you settled for the night." With that he disappeared out into the hallway, reappearing after a few minutes following a nurse carrying Sherlock's chart.

Sherlock let the nurse take his vitals, interpret them, ask him questions, until she had satisfied herself that he was recovered enough from the operation to be moved.

The nurse came back with a wheelchair. "Sit up slowly, Mr. Holmes," she advised. Sherlock did as told, then was helped into the wheelchair. With John, having deposited his bag into Sherlock's lap, pushing the wheeled metal stand with the drips Sherlock was on, and the nurse pushing the wheelchair, they made the trek to the private wing of the hospital.

After using the bathroom, sinking into bed in his room there, finally, Sherlock noted that the mattress was plusher. There was a small private bathroom, a TV, a small fridge and, best of all, a flip chair that could be converted into a single bed or lounger. The nurse pointed out that John was welcome to use the guest room, not far away, overnight, then excused herself. Staff would check on Sherlock regularly during the night.

"Where do you want me to sleep?" John asked seeing Sherlock glance at the flip chair.

 _In bed with me_ , Sherlock thought, but said "Here," instead.

"Alright. I'll go see if I can find a pillow and blanket in the closet there." John went to investigate and found what he was looking for.

"You can put your bed right here beside my bed," Sherlock suggested.

"Um, I think they'll want to be able to check on you," John pointed out. "How about I set it up over here where you can see me?" From the location he indicated he would also be able to have a clear view of the door.

Sherlock pursed his lips in response.

"Right, I'll do that." When he was done setting up his bed, John pulled a regular chair up beside Sherlock's bed and deposited himself in it. "How's that? You can hold my hand until you're asleep, then I'll go lie down. Hm?" John held out his hand for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock took John up on his offer, took his hand and rested it on the mattress beside his body.

"Did you bring the pants?" he asked, smiling.

Maybe the request had not been the result of him being on painkillers then, John thought, smiling back. "Yes. Are you trying to torture me? I remember you said 'no sexual touching'."

"That's right, unless we're together. Thanks for reminding me." Sherlock's expression sobered visibly, he turned his head away from John, swallowed, then took a deep breath.

"Thanks for having followed me, by the way," John said, trying to get Sherlock's attention. "I don't think he would have hurt his wife, since they were not estranged, but you may have saved my life."

"You did save mine. Thank you, John." Sherlock was still looking away, his voice was quiet.

"Hey," John squeezed Sherlock's hand briefly, "what is it?"

Since Sherlock had asked John to forgive himself, and presuming that he had - he didn't look guilty anymore as before, and he had brought the pants - he felt he shouldn't bring up why John had gone out this evening in the first place. He found being homosexual himself was pretty straight forward. A heterosexual man, at least on some level attracted to his homosexual friend, might find that confusing, he had to concede. He did not have a female body, would not have one. John's preference might always be females, and then what? What chance, realistically, would a relationship have if they tried? Did John even want to give 'them' a try? He had said he would give John time to figure it out.

Noting that Sherlock looked sad, John asked "What are you thinking about?"

"I was just thinking about your natural sexual orientation being heterosexual. Which is fine, of course. - Sorry." Sherlock looked at John.

John nodded. "Yeah, it does appear so. If we were together, that doesn't mean I wouldn't be faithful to you, exclusive and all that."

 _If_ , Sherlock's ears perked up. John had been thinking about it. He would not allow himself to hope, though, in case it did not come to pass. He might find the disappointment over it crushing, and then... He was confident he'd survive, but..

"I went out tonight because I wanted to have heterosexual sex one _last_ time," John tried to hint at his considering a relationship with Sherlock. "Kind of like when one wants to quit smoking or drinking and has one last cigarette or drink. Does that make sense?"

Sighing, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I can follow with the cigarettes. But I've found that my addiction to drugs does not work like that. Any hit could be my last one, I could die of an overdose... Besides, I don't think you can simply stop being sexually attracted to women by having sex with a woman 'one last time'. - Oh, you mean like a bachelor party, having a good time before settling down?"

John closed his eyes, this was painful. "I want you to know that I _am_ considering to be in a committed relationship with you."

"I guess I should be grateful for that." Sherlock did not want to ask whether, since this 'last time' had not been consummated, John would seek out another female sex partner. His eyes were drifting shut. If he was honest with himself, he felt exhausted, physically and emotionally. His body and even his mind felt tired. He yawned. For once, his mind was quiet without having taken drugs. John was here with him, they both were alive, John was considering...

"I do have to work in the morning. So in case you wake up and I'm not here that's where I am. You can ask a nurse to get my laptop out of the bag for you, if you're allowed to use one already. I'll come by after work again. Okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you for staying with me, John," he mumbled. He sighed, content. With John here, the room felt peaceful.

"You have a good sleep now." John kept holding Sherlock's hand, rubbing small circles on it with his thumb until Sherlock's breathing evened out and his mouth opened slightly. He looked comfortable and relaxed. John hoped it was partly due to his presence.

He didn't want to let go of Sherlock's hand yet, so remained sitting there a few minutes longer. It felt warm now, in contrast to after he had been stabbed. Right now, he didn't want to be anywhere else but here. Right now, he didn't want to be in the company of a woman, or have sex with a woman, or have a relationship with a woman. He felt that he was where he was supposed to be: here with Sherlock.

He looked at Sherlock's face again, his neck, noting the pulse beating there. His life could have ended tonight. No more pulse... Yes, life _was_ short. He understood why Sherlock had told him.

He squeezed his hand gently one last time, leaned over to press a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, pulled the sheet up higher to cover his shoulders, then tucked himself in on his bed, with a clear view of Sherlock and the door. Though his instinct was to guard Sherlock, he was so tired that he fell asleep within two minutes.

***


	27. Life partner love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aside from the possible sexual aspect of a committed romantic relationship, _did_ he have life partner love for Sherlock?

During the night, a nurse came by every 90 minutes to check on Sherlock, that there were no complications from the operation and that the tube on the drainage bag was not clogged. Even though they tried to be quiet, John woke up briefly every time, falling back asleep right away again after having satisfied himself that it was just a nurse.

"John!" Sherlock's voice woke him up. He looked over at Sherlock's bed, he appeared to be sleeping. He must have dreamed then that Sherlock called him, or Sherlock had been dreaming and shouted in his sleep. He wasn't sure which, only knew it sounded the same as the warning Sherlock had called out in Sabine's backyard, urgent, insistent. He checked the time. It was 4.20 AM, his alarm was set for 6.30 AM.

Realizing if he had not gone out when he did to check on the noises he had heard and heeded that call, that Sherlock might be dead now, John's heart was beating faster. The thought made him angry again, angry at Sherlock's attacker, and angry at himself for having led him there. He had killed the attacker, and he had forgiven himself. Punching the side of the pillow under his head, trying to get comfortable to go back to sleep, he couldn't quiet his thoughts right away.

He was not God, he would not be able to keep their bodies from dying one day. He wished Sherlock could die peacefully without pain, preferably of 'old age' after a long and fulfilled life. He wished Sherlock every happiness, God's blessing, health, and a loving life partner, if he wanted that. He wanted to remain his friend and support him for as long as possible. For a life partner, John knew now, Sherlock had chosen him. And what did life partners do? Love and support the person they chose to be with the best way they knew how. Aside from the possible sexual aspect of a committed romantic relationship, _did_ he have life partner love for Sherlock?

At that question, John rolled his eyes at himself. If he left out the word 'romantic', yes, he was already in a relationship with Sherlock, in the sense that he was committed to be his friend, for life. Again, leaving aside, for now, the possible sexual aspect of a committed romantic relationship, could he see himself supporting and caring for Sherlock until either of them died? Yes, he could. Knowing, as he did now, that he could be sexually attracted to Sherlock, what kind of love did he have for Sherlock, then, really? Friendship only? Or life partner love as well? Blinking, his eyebrows rose, thinking of what the answer, once he knew it, could mean. He checked the time again, it was 4.24 AM.

***

Sherlock woke up feeling rested and relaxed to the sound of John spitting out water into the sink in the bathroom, brushing his teeth getting ready for work.

"Good morning," John greeted him with a sunny smile emerging from the bathroom.

"Good morning," Sherlock greeted back, trying to deduce why John apparently was in a good mood.

"I was thinking some more, a few hours ago... Can we talk later?"

Sherlock swallowed, nodded.

"I know you're on hiatus, so I brought your small bible and a few music CDs from home for you." John pointed to the bedstand at Sherlock's right, which had said items as well as a disc player and a pair of earbuds on it. "I portioned the soup you cooked and put it in the freezer, we can eat it some other time."

 _Home... we... other time..._ "Thank you, John, for being so thoughtful!"

John stepped over to Sherlock's left to check on the tube and drainage bag. "Looks good," he commented. "Want to use the loo while I'm still here, or put up with a nurse later?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly at the prospect, his lips formed a thin line. He'd prefer peeing in the toilet by himself, not have a nurse hover around. "Right," he remembered to sit up slowly, "I'll go while you're still here."

John let Sherlock manage by himself, just stayed close by in case he needed assistance. Since the IV tubes had not been pulled yet, Sherlock held on to the wheeled metal stand, pushing it along. John waited outside the bathroom, then accompanied Sherlock back to his bed. He watched his bare feet on the floor, the long fingers of his right hand were curled around the metal tube of the stand, his face looked slightly pained.

"Are you in pain?" John asked, concerned, once Sherlock was lying back down.

Sherlock had closed his eyes, shook his head. "Tired," he said. He did feel slight pressure and pain at the site of the operation, but did not want to make a fuss. He would mention it to a nurse once John had left for work.

John's bed had been converted back into the flip chair, the pillow and blanket put back in the closet.

"Alright," John said, blinking. "I'll try to get the rest of the week off." At this point, he did not even care if he was let go over it. He was a good doctor, he would be able to find other employment. It wasn't just that he wanted to be with Sherlock at this time, he felt a need to be with him.

"Eat and drink when you can, okay? You want to heal sooner than later. - Can I give you a hug?" He waited for Sherlock to indicate his agreement, then kept the hug light but a little longer. "I'll see you later," he said letting go.

"See you," Sherlock echoed, looking after John as he pulled the door shut behind him. He sighed, finding being alone in a hospital room, as a patient, was boring.

Next time a nurse came to check on him he mentioned the slight pressure in the left side of his chest. She checked for signs of infection, made sure the tube was not clogged, emptied the bag which by that time was a quarter full.

"Is it feeling any better now?"

"A little," Sherlock answered.

"We'll definitely keep an eye on it," she assured him, then left.

Later, at breakfast time, since he did not feel particularly hungry, remembering John's words, he ate and drank more than he usually would have. It was not easy, but, yes, he did want his body to heal as soon as possible. Since John apparently believed that "adequate amounts" of food and drink would aid in his healing, he'd try to eat properly.

He reached for his bible on the bedstand, prayed before reading Psalms 23 and 145, listened to a few tracks from his Taizé music CD, thought about his situation with John, prayed a little more, then rested.

***

"I need to have the rest of the week off to be with my friend who's in hospital," John explained to his boss at the walk-in-clinic where he worked.

"Would that friend be Sherlock Holmes?" his boss asked.

"Erm, yes, but I don't see why..." John looked puzzled.

"Of course you can have time off work to be with your friend, John," his boss said in a very understanding tone of voice.

"Really, that is...," John was too surprised that this was going this easy to say anything else. He wondered whether Mycroft might have anything to do with it. "Thank you!"

"You're welcome! You're a good doctor, John. We do value you! Should you need more time off, just let us know. I understand you also help with your friend's work. I've read about a few of the cases in the newspaper... The sooner Mr. Holmes is recovered, the sooner this important work can continue."

"Thank you!" John left his boss' office and let the receptionist know that he was ready to see his next patient. It felt good to know that his work as doctor here was valued, and his work with Sherlock appreciated. His shift went by fast, he looked forward to be with Sherlock at the hospital again.

***

At lunchtime, Sherlock tried to eat some more food and drink some more fluids, determined to heal as fast as possible. He wanted to leave hospital soon, recuperating at Baker Street was preferable. But he found his appetite lacking, and his stomach, surprisingly, told his brain that it was still busy digesting food from breakfast. He ate what he could, drank what he could. John should be back soon, he looked forward to his company.

***

John took the bus back to the hospital. It was a direct route, he would not have to change busses. With no one sitting beside him, he leaned the side of his head against the window. The glass felt cool on his temple. It was a bright fall day. The leaves of the deciduous trees and shrubs were still turning colors, many were falling already, scattered about by the strong wind that blew on this early afternoon.

Thinking about his relationship with Sherlock, he closed his eyes. The light passing through the gaps between buildings appeared as brighter shadows behind his eyelids. Bright-dark-bright-dark... He did not doubt that Sherlock loved him, that he wanted to be in a relationship with him. He was still amazed that Sherlock had taken the courage to admit his feelings and ask to be in a romantic relationship with him...

He could see, now, that he did have life partner love for Sherlock. He could see sharing his life with and supporting Sherlock for as long as he lived. It was the romantic/sexual aspect of a committed romantic relationship he could not quite picture yet. Yes, he did find Sherlock sexually attractive. But he had never so much as kissed a man, let alone had sex with a person of the same sex. Truthfully, he still felt quite nervous about the possible, probably eventual, sexual expressions of love between Sherlock and him. The palms of his hands were getting slightly moist, his tummy felt a bit queasy, his penis was getting hard a bit trying to picture touching Sherlock.

He tried to remember whether he had ever felt this nervous about sexual contact with a girl, as a teenager, or a woman, later. Swallowing, he knew he had not. What was it about male/male sex that made him nervous, he asked himself. He could not ignore the fact that Sherlock had a male body. Sherlock identified male. Sherlock was homosexual. He hoped talking openly about his difficulty in this area with Sherlock would help.

He was glad now that Sherlock had offered a relationship without sex, it made his decision easier. Whereas in past romantic relationships with women sexual attraction had definitely played a part in wanting to be with them, here the prospect of sexual intimacy, still, had been hindering and not a deciding factor at this time.

He rubbed a hand over his still closed eyes. He knew in the past he had enjoyed expressing love for his female partners physically, sharing intimacy in a sexual way. Why should he not be able to do the same, eventually, with Sherlock, just because he was a man? Any of Sherlock's touches in the past several days had conveyed his love and deep respect for him. In this regard, he was sure, Sherlock would not change.

His own commitment to Sherlock, now, was not in question. At first, he had thought it unfair to himself and Sherlock if he would not want to be sexually intimate, because normally he would want to do 'all that', especially with his life partner. As he had done 'all that' with women in the past. But, obviously, Sherlock was not a woman. He was a wonderful human being. A man. The man John was committing to spend the rest of his life with. Because, yes, he loved him, Sherlock.

Entering a committed relationship without knowing what he would be able to do sexually with his life partner was... sobering, mildly embarrassing, somewhat humiliating, a fact he had to accept at this time. He sighed. There was no way around accepting his possible limits of being sexually intimate with Sherlock, at least to begin with. He felt sad about the fact that he might not be able to express his love like he normally would right away, because Sherlock had a male body.

Beating himself up over this would not help. _Accept it_ , he told himself, _just accept it. I'll do what I can, and what I cannot do right now, maybe we'll be able to do later._ \- Later... Yes, life was short! His possible difficulty in the 'romantic' department was no valid reason for him anymore not to begin a committed relationship with Sherlock. They'd figure things out, with patience, and respect, and in love. He smiled. Once he took the pressure off himself that he should be able to be sexually intimate with Sherlock in certain ways as he had been with females in the past, he felt quite relieved. How Sherlock and he would express their love for each other, as they surely would, was _really_ no one else's business!

He opened his eyes, checked where the bus was at. Two more stops to the hospital. He got off at his destination, then let the nurses' station in the private wing of the hospital know that he was back. Since the door was closed he knocked briefly, in case there were other visitors or medical staff. Opening the door, he saw a doctor standing by the foot of Sherlock's bed.

"We've repaired the pulmonary blood vessels leading to your left lung that had been damaged," he was just addressing Sherlock when John entered. "Oh, good that you are here, Dr. Watson," he included John in the conversation, "you need to hear this as well. Provided there are not complications, the stitches should dissolve by themselves in time. To aid with the healing, you should keep your blood pressure normal, avoid strenuous activities for a while, if you know what I mean."

Sherlock frowned. He certainly wasn't going to chase after criminals anytime soon since he was still on hiatus.

 _How can this doctor assume without knowing or asking?!_ John pursed his lips. In the past he would have set the record straight, said it was not so as this doctor assumed. But seeing Sherlock frown, that the doctor's meaning was escaping him, made him want to see whether Sherlock would catch on to his words.

"I know what you mean by 'avoid strenuous activities', doctor," John said with a calculating cold smile. "Rest assured that _**we**_ will take it into consideration! - I need to point out to you, though, that a doctor should not assume without knowing or asking, which is what you did!" He watched the doctor realize his mistake as he averted his look to the floor briefly.

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." The doctor looked at them in turn. "Indeed I had assumed..."

Sherlock blinked and swallowed, looked at John expectantly, beginning to catch on.

Smiling, John stepped to the side of Sherlock's bed. "May I?" he asked. When Sherlock nodded despite not knowing what John intended to do, he bent down and briefly pressed a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips. "I missed you," he said pulling back, his sincerity evident in the touch of their lips and his voice.

Sherlock was speechless.

The doctor's cheeks and tips of his ears had turned red with embarrassment. "Like I said, avoid... Right now you need to rest, mostly, Mr. Holmes. Then you'll probably be able to go home in the next few days. I'll stop by again later this afternoon. Excuse me." With that he left the room, pulling the door shut.

" _We?_ " Sherlock asked looking up at John, getting a hold of his hand.

" _Yes!_ " John said smiling with tender happy love in his eyes, relieved to let Sherlock know his decision.

***


End file.
